


Our Divinest Senses - Another Ending

by alexxphoenix42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Cuddling, Fluff, Food Play, Games, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prostate Massage, Puzzles, Story within a Story, Trapped on an island, discussion of ideas of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:32:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9520931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: +++ This is an alternate ending for an unfinished work. +++After being sectioned, John and Sherlock met for the first time when they were sentenced to six months as the only residents of a secret government facility on one of the uninhabited Shetland Islands. Forced to work together to play a series of elaborate games set up by Mycroft, they gradually became friends, and then lovers. Now, rather than continuing to attempt to escape, they have decided to use this time as an all-expense-paid Sex Holiday.





	1. Sense of Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChrisCalledMeSweetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Our Divinest Senses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7820518) by [ChrisCalledMeSweetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/pseuds/ChrisCalledMeSweetie). 



> You'll need to read the fabulous series [Divinest Senses](http://archiveofourown.org/series/534016) by the lovely ChrisCalledMeSweetie to make sense of this story as it is an alternate ending to the second fic, "Our Divinest Senses." 
> 
> After the weird Shutter Island/Saw hybrid that "The Final Problem" turned out to be, the writer felt quite understandably uncomfortable about finishing a work that felt too reminiscent of Sherrinford. Making lemonade out of lemons, she opened up an opportunity to anyone who wanted to take a crack at finishing her tale. 
> 
> This is my attempt to fulfill that request, giving my own spin on how Sherlock and John deal with solving the puzzles and problems that come their way in this experimental facility on a lonely island. I'm thrilled to work on this, and grateful to ChrisCalledMeSweetie for her services as beta as I try to bring closure to this clever, sexy, fantastic story. I hope I do it justice. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A found story pushes our heros onto new discoveries.

***

 

John held the manila envelope up for inspection, flipping it over to view both sides. There were no identifying marks that he could see. It felt light in his fingers, just the ordinary sort of thing you might use to send an inter-office memo. He shrugged.

“You could open it,” Sherlock suggested, sinking to the bed beside him.

“Yeah, right-o. Hope there’s no anthrax or anything in here.”  John shook the envelope warily, producing only a slight rustling of paper.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but remained quiet as John slipped a finger under the flap and pried it open. He turned the envelope over to dump out a stapled-together packet of papers that fluttered to the floor. When nothing else seemed to be forthcoming, John bent over to retrieve it.

“ _The Tale of Sir Boast A Lot and the Naughty Little Hobbit,_ " John read the title on the front page somewhat incredulously. “What in the world?”

Sherlock groaned and collapsed back across the bed. “Oh, God.”

John quickly flipped to the next page. “Once upon a time there lived a young prince who was known as Sir Boast A Lot. . .” John’s eyebrows traveled up somewhere near his hairline as he scanned through the text. “Your brother wrote this?”

“Oh I doubt he actually wrote it, but I’m sure he dictated the shape of it.”

“But what does this mean?” 

“It means my brother is a complete arsehole.” Sherlock sighed. “It’s also probably a clue, and something we’ll need to actually _read._ ”

John burst out laughing. “It looks like a bedtime story, a fairy tale.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Sherlock shrugged.

“You never had bedtime stories when you were little?” John rounded on him.

“My parents read to me when I was pre-literate, but I tended to enjoy scientific journals, or history books. Fiction didn’t interest me much.”

“Ah, well budge over. You’re about to have your first fairy tale read to you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but acquiesced to John’s direction that they lie back, getting comfortable against the headboard as he prepared to read.

“Okay,” John cleared his throat, holding the page upright, “Once upon a time there lived a young prince known as Sir Boast A Lot. It wasn’t his real name, but he was such an insufferable know-it-all, bothering everyone about the castle, that someone called him the nick-name and it stuck. Soon no one even remembered what the prince was actually called. Despite the name, the prince continued sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. One day a woman, a distant relation, came to visit the castle. Unbeknownst to the prince, the woman was a powerful sorceress. When the prince insulted her that night at dinner, revealing private facts about herself for all and sundry to hear, the woman was enraged.” 

Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably next to John on the duvet. John butted his foot gently against Sherlock’s ankle before continuing.

“Magic swirled around her as she pointed a long, bony finger at the know-it-all. ‘I curse you to wear the pain on your skin that you have caused others. May you bear the shape of a monster until you can know true compassion.’

The prince felt a horrible writhing begin over his entire body. He ran as fast as he could from the dining hall into the night trying to escape the spell, but the magic had wrapped its tendrils around him. As he ran, he felt himself twisting and growing until he had turned into an enormous dragon. There was no way he could return to the castle having grown to almost half the size of it. Reluctantly, Sir Boast A Lot left his home, raising his wings to the breeze to find somewhere more dragony to roost.

The prince flew for several days, encountering angry villagers who shot flaming arrows at him whenever he drew too close to a settlement. At last, exhausted and sore, he found a dragon’s lair in the mountains that seemed to have been abandoned, a perfect place to curl up and lick his wounds. To his wonder, the prince discovered that as a dragon, he had a magic of his own. For protection, he willed a large stone to block the entrance to the underground citadel, securing it with a spell. Only he or someone who knew how to crack the code written over the entrance could summon the magic to open the door.”

John paused to glance over at Sherlock. “You still with me?” Sherlock had closed his eyes, and raised pressed palms to his chin looking like some effigy on a sarcophagus.  He cracked one eye, rumbling something in the affirmative, so John continued.

“Meanwhile on the other side of the kingdom, there lived a small hobbit who was not quite the same as the other hobbits. You see this hobbit had left the shire and gone to battle some years ago, and it had left scars on his body, but even deeper scars on his soul that no one could see. It made a divide between himself and his kinfolk so that even when he returned home . . .”

John felt his throat growing inexplicably tight. He tried clearing it several times before restarting.

“Here,” Sherlock said softly, sitting up. “Let me.” He reached for the pages in John’s grip.

“Yeah, alright.” John let him take them.

“  . . . so that even when he returned home,” Sherlock read in his rich, plumy voice “he found himself restless, and unable to enjoy the things that he had loved before. When a band of dwarves came to the shire looking for someone join their quest, the Little Hobbit was the first to volunteer. The dwarves told him they sought an enchanted jewel, one that resided in a citadel beneath the ground in their ancestral home, a place guarded by a fierce dragon. Armed with only his wits and a small sword, the Hobbit traveled with the dwarves for many days and nights through inhospitable landscapes and unspeakable dangers to reach the dragon’s lair.

When at last they reached the entrance to the underground citadel, weary from travel, they were dismayed to see the large stone blocking the way. The dwarves noticed the markings etched into the rock wall above the entrance, but try as they might, none of them could decipher the strange language and speak the words to open the way. The Little Hobbit who was even more foot-sore and tired than the dwarves, pushed his way through to see the inscription himself. As luck would have it, the words were written in Ancient Hobbitish, an older version of the dialect spoken around the shire, and the Little Hobbit had no trouble at all making sense of the words. Heat rose over his face, and he bit his tongue lest he say anything that gave his knowledge away.

“Here, now, what’s all this gibberish?” one of the Dwarves grumbled.

“It’s not words that I’ve ever seen before,” another declared, scratching his bushy beard.

They tried to simply push the rock aside with their combined strength, but the boulder had been set by magic and would not be moved by any other force. A great melancholy descended over the group at their failure. The dwarves were nearly ready to concede that their journey had been in vain when the little Hobbit felt compelled to speak.

“I can read the words.” tumbled from his mouth in a great rush.

“What?” the dwarves exclaimed rounding on the Little Hobbit. “You’ve known all this time and said nothing?”

“Well, it’s just that it’s a bit rude.” The Little Hobbit shuffled his furry feet against the ground hoping to stave off the inevitable. “I’d rather not say it aloud.”

The dwarves, being dwarves, were of course use to rough living and rougher language, and fairly desperate to reclaim their jewel in the mountain. They assured their hobbit friend that nothing he could read aloud would affect them in the slightest.

The Little Hobbit pulled up his courage by the boot straps, stood tall and read in a quavering voice “I am a very, naughty little hobbit, and I need to be spanked.”

“Oh, no.” John reached back for the pages, pulling them from Sherlock’s grip. “It doesn’t really say that.”

“I assure you, it does. Why don’t you read the next bit?”

John furrowed his brow scanning the text until he found the line that Sherlock had just read. Sure enough he’d been correct.  “Soooo, naughy hobbit, needs to be spanked . . .

Going against their word, their dwarves broke out into gales of laughter at the Little Hobbit who had blushed clean up to his pointed ears. Chortling and giggling, the dwarves clutched their round bellies with mirth until the grating sound of the large stone moving stopped them. When the boulder had moved back just enough to allow a very small person to slip through - _Oi, do they have to keep going on about how small he is_? - the dwarves patted the hobbit on the back and wished him luck on this quest to find the hidden gem.

The Little Hobbit felt his courage had quite deserted him. He forged ahead down the long, dark tunnel bolstered only by the dwarves’ assurances that surely he was too small to be noticed by the dragon. Sadly, though, they had neglected to think of the dragon’s advanced sense of smell.

The creature, who had once been Sir Boast A Lot, dozed on a pile of treasure that another dragon had gathered before his arrival, dreaming of plump, lazy sheep. He’d not been hunting for several days, and it seemed his stomach would soon need to be appeased. Something in the air alerted him though, and he twitched awake, rousing to sniff a new presence in his stronghold. Carefully, he moved back into the shadows, sinking beneath a pile of coins to hide and plot as the intruder made his way into the great hall.

The Little Hobbit had only a cursory idea of what the dwarves’ magic jewel looked like, but he’d been told he’d know it when he saw it.  His eyes grew round at the mounds of treasure heaped on the floor before him. Just as he thought he’d spied something twinkling and made to move closer, the coins shifted under his feet, and the mighty dragon’s head burst forth.”

“Okay, you need to read the next part.” John thrust the pages back at Sherlock.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but dutifully found his place in the story and started again.

“ ‘Who is there, who dares disturb my rest?’ the dragon roared.

The Little Hobbit who had found a treasure chest to hide behind quaked all the way to his furry toes hoping he wouldn’t be found out.

‘Come out’ the dragon insisted. ‘I can smeeeelllll you.’

Deciding he had no chance of escape, the Little Hobbit bravely stood to accept his fate. Instantly the dragon dove out and pounced, caging him between outstretched talons that pinned him to the ground.

‘So, how did you get in my lair, little thief? I had spells on the door.’

‘Please, sir,’ the Little Hobbit’s teeth were chattering so hard he could barely speak. ‘I meant no harm’ he lied. “The words over the door were written in Hobbitish. It wasn’t hard to read them.’

‘But there are no hobbits for miles and miles from here. Few people have even seen a hobbit, they never leave their shire. I felt certain no one would be able to read . . .’

The dragon broke off to bend his neck down, bringing his face closer to his little prey, and he breathed his scent in deeply. The little creature who writhed so appealingly in his talons smelled of brisk mountain winds, something sweet like honey, and a deep earthiness like good fresh soil turned over in the springtime. After being drenched in the smells of cold stone halls, and sharp metallic treasure, the dragon welcome the scent of simpler, softer things.

‘You must be a hobbit.’ The dragon concluded with some surprise. “I’ve never actually seen one before.”

‘But you wrote your password for hobbits to read,’ the Little Hobbit managed to squeak.

‘It was a joke. I got it from a book.’ The dragon shrugged, peering closer at the small thing in his mercy. He snaked out his long forked tongue and licked over the creature’s face. He tasted like sweet yeast rolls, something the dragon hadn’t had in years.

‘Please, sir if you’re going to eat me, do it and make it fast.’ The Little Hobbit screwed his eyes shut tight, bracing himself.

“Eat you? I wouldn’t dream of it,’ the dragon snorted. ‘You’re the most interesting thing to happen here in months.’

Though the hobbit wriggled and protested, the dragon used the tip of a talon to carefully strip away the creature’s clothes, holding him down to better examine him. The dragon ran his warm rough tongue delicately over the hobbit’s body into every crack and crevice noticing that after a few minutes, the creature was no longer trying to wiggle out of his grasp, but was spreading his legs to grant him better access.”

“OH MY GOD.” John sat up. “It’s porn, kinky inter-species porn.” He flapped a hand toward the pages in Sherlock’s hand. “What kind of sick fuck is your brother?”

“I never took you for a prude, John.”

“I’m not, it’s just . . .” John trailed off. He absolutely didn’t want to explain that the story had already made him half-hard in his jeans. “It’s weird . . . alright?” John crossed his arms tightly over his chest

“So what if it’s weird? It might be a clue of some sort. Do you mind if I continue?”

“No, fine, fine. Finish the damn thing.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock found his place again.

“The dragon brought the Little Hobbit to his climax easily, then tucked him up against his body to stay warm as he dozed afterwards. When the wee thing awoke, the dragon flipped him on his front, and repeated the process, licking into the hobbit until he was drowning in ecstasy. Later, when the intruder seemed to have fallen asleep for the night, the dragon found costly fur capes from a chest to drape around him. When his hobbit seemed well settled, the dragon slipped through a hidden crevice in the top of the mountain, and flew off to hunt.

The next morning, the Little Hobbit stretched and rolled awake to find an entire cart of produce and a freshly-roasted lamb awaiting his pleasure for breakfast.

‘Do you want some?’ he asked the dragon politely before he tore into the feast before him.

‘No I ate already. I prefer my food on the hoof, as it were,” the dragon said breezily, “but please, help yourself.’

The Little Hobbit tucked into his meal with gusto, and the dragon felt an unexpected pleasure course over him at watching the little one so enjoying his food. They talked as he ate of inconsequential things, the dragon asking after the hobbit’s journey, and his life back in the shire. When at last he was done, the dragon pressed the hobbit again why he had really come to his lair. With a blush, the Little Hobbit admitted to being on a mission to find the dwarves’ missing gem.

‘What this one, the glowing rock?’ the dragon asked, easily picking it out of the hoard of treasure with his claws.

‘Why yes, I think so.’

‘Oh, they can have it. I don’t care about it.’ The dragon shrugged. ‘To be honest I don’t care about any of it, it was here when I arrived.’

The Little Hobbit was excited to take the gem and leave, but the dragon shook his head. ‘I think not little thief. I’ve grown to enjoy your company. You aren’t leaving.’

‘But my friends—they’re waiting outside for me.’

‘Well, they can have the jewel, but they can’t have you. You’re mine now.’ The dragon flew to the entrance where the great stone blocked the entryway. With a few muttered words, the boulder creaked and rolled to the side. The band of dwarves camped outside were greatly surprised when an enormous dragon poked out to chuck their beloved gemstone at their feet.

‘There you’ve got what you came for. CLEAR OFF!’ he bellowed, punctuating his roar with a blast of flame. The dwarves offered no dissent. They quickly grabbed their things and ran, obviously chalking up the Little Hobbit as dead, and were heard of no more.

After that a sort of agreement seemed to have sprung up between the dragon and the hobbit. The Little Hobbit didn’t try to escape, and in exchange, the dragon brought him anything he desired to keep him well. Each morning, he presented the hobbit with new food that he had foraged, and each evening, he brought him to writhing orgasm in new and varied ways. One night he used the flat of his tongue to spank the hobbit quite soundly before wrapping his tongue around his cock to bring him off. The hobbit sobbed his thanks.

Many of the boxes heaped about the hall yielded practical things like plates and cups (though plated with gold,) and enough clothes that the Little Hobbit was never cold. The hobbit found that the dragon liked to have the scales scratched under his chin and along his back, and he would climb over him to perform this service, getting to places the dragon couldn’t easily reach himself.

‘You’re like a great house cat.’ The Little Hobbit smiled, scratching him behind an ear flap. The dragon rumbled out something like a deep purr in reply, and the Hobbit laughed in delight.

Eventually the day came when the dragon looked at the Little Hobbit and noticed that he was growing pale and wan living underground. He realized that a creature of green, and sun should not live this way. Though it pained him, he made his decision.

‘Hobbit, I want you to know that you are free to go. You may carry anything you’d like of the treasure, and return to your shire.’

The Little Hobbit’s mouth dropped open in surprised. ‘Are you not pleased with my company any longer, O Dragon?’

‘Your company is worth more to me than any costly item in this accursed lair, but I will not have you stay and live your life in the dark like this. You must go and be where you belong.’

‘But what of you?’ the hobbit protested. ‘You could come with me.’

‘I am a monster,’ the dragon sighed. ‘I must live outside the settlements of civilized creatures banished to the shadows where I belong.’

‘I won’t go.’ The Little Hobbit shook his head and stood up, bringing himself to his tallest height, which next to a dragon was hardly anything at all. ‘I won’t leave you. Don’t you know, where you are _is_ my home now.’ He flung himself against the dragon’s side and held on. In that instant, a shimmer of pure magic rippled over them, and he found himself embracing not a great beast, but a tall thin man with eyes like summer rain.

The prince introduced himself and explained that he had been under a curse which they had just broken. When the hobbit had gotten over his shock, they found clothes and boots for the prince, and sacks to hold as many gems as they could carry. Side by side, they left the citadel to find what adventures they might in the wide world together.”

“God, I didn’t want to like it, and then it went all sweet.” John sighed. “Is that all of it?”

Sherlock flipped to the last page to reveal an illustration of the dwarves and the hobbit peering at the marks over the dragon’s sealed door.

“There. What do you make of all this? Sherlock passed it to John.

“Well, it doesn’t follow the plot of _the Hobbit_ exactly. In the real story the dwarves are trying to retake the Mountain stronghold.”

“Plot, the plot of what?” Sherlock crinkled the bridge of his nose in confusion.

“ _The Hobbit_? A famous children’s story? My mum used to read it to me when I was little. Don’t tell me you’ve deleted that.”

“Fine, I won’t tell you.” Sherlock shrugged. “But what do you make of it. What’s the clue?”

“Well, they were looking for a jewel. Is there anything in the place that might be like a large glowing rock? Or anything buried?”

“We need more data.” Sherlock shook his head. “Do we have this book here?”

“Oh, right, yeah, I think I saw it on the bookshelf.”

“Ah, then our quest begins in the games room.”

They assumed their positions against the door to activate the lock. It had become something of a usual routine, standing chest to chest, fingers set to the scanners on the wall to get in and out of the bedroom. At one point, they’d tried wedging it open, but an alarm had sounded that only grew more shrill until they’d allowed the door to slide shut. They’d agreed that it wasn’t that much of a hardship to spend a few minutes in an embrace each day to satisfy the building’s mad requirements.

“So you liked the part about the dragon holding down the  . . . erm . . . hobbit, then?” Sherlock asked by John’s ear.

“What?” John frowned.

“Don’t be coy, John. You found it arousing. Was it the fantasy nature of the scenario or the dominance and submission?

“Jesus, I don’t have a thing for dragons.” John could feel his face heating. He ducked it as well as he could in the space between the door and Sherlock, and ended up sticking his nose in Sherlock’s armpit.  He smelled comforting. “Yeah, alright, I had a girlfriend in uni who liked to play a bit with tying me up.” His words came muffled against Sherlock’s side.

“You liked it.” Sherlock dropped his voice even lower. John felt his cock give a hopeful twitch. It was almost a Pavlovian response at this point.

“Yeah, alright, I enjoyed it. We broke up after a few months, and I never had another partner interested in that.”

“Hmmmm.”

The door slid open behind them, and they moved on to the games room, eager to find the book. John slid the paperback copy off the shelf. It wasn’t the cover he remembered as a child, but it was the same old story. He gave it a cursory shake to see if anything was lodged inside the pages, but nothing shook loose.

“Damn. Well worth a try.”

“Are there any other books related to this one?”  Sherlock squinted at the bookcase.

“Well, yeah there’s a whole series, _The Lord of the Rings_?”

“Can you remember the titles?”

“Hang on a minute. Yeah . . .” John looked up, searching his memory. “There’s _The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers_ , and _The Return of the King_.” He ticked them off on his fingers.

John helped Sherlock sift through their modest collection of books before concluding that _The Hobbit_ was the only Tolkien book with them on the island.

“Perhaps the clue is something to do with the titles and we don’t need the actual books.” Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Rings? Kings? Towers?”

“That sounds like chess, well except for the ring bit,” John offered.

“Possibly. Let’s check the chess set.”

They spent some time going over all of the chess pieces and the board looking for hidden compartments, secret clues, markings, but after an hour, they decided it was nothing more than an ordinary chess game.

Sherlock wanted to sit and puzzle over things longer, but John made him relocate to the kitchen for something to eat.

“Come on, we’ll both think better on a full stomach.”

“You’ll think better. Digestion slows me down,” Sherlock clipped.

“Alright, Spock.” The side of John’s mouth tipped up, but he let Sherlock think in peace at the kitchen table until the meal was ready.

Sherlock looked at the bowl of pasta and lumpy sauce set in front of him, sniffing it disapprovingly.

“Don’t we have any more of that curry thing?”

“Sorry, that’s long gone,” John said. “You’re going to have branch out a bit, try some new things.”

“I hate trying new things,” Sherlock sneered.

“We need to make do with what we have, alright?” John snapped. “I’m not sure how long our supplies are meant to last.”

“Oh, of course.” Sherlock’s face fell. He picked up his fork and tried a bite contritely.

“Look, I’m sorry.” John blew out a breath. “I don’t mean to be a dick.”

“No, it’s fine. This situation would wear on anyone.” Sherlock reached out and placed a hand over John’s free one by his plate.

“It’s not your fault,” John said turning it over to thread their fingers together. “I just worry a bit. If we don’t manage to get the fence turned off and get out, we could run out of food. I don’t know if anyone’s actually monitoring things out here. I’d hate for us to be reduced to eating grass from outside.”

“Hmmm, that’s an interesting idea. If we needed to forage, I wonder what the island might provide.”

“I didn’t see much on our rambles, but who knows.” John let go of Sherlock to scoop up a bite of his food.

“Thankfully we’ve got things in the freezer still.”

“Yeah, but I am NOT eating stewed corpse.”

Sherlock looked horrified. “Well, of course not. We don’t know if they died from something communicable.”

John snorted a laugh, and they continued eating more companionably.

“Hmm. It’s not half bad,” Sherlock said, working through his plate with small, careful bites.

John grunted in reply, watching as Sherlock picked out any onions, setting them to the side, but declined to comment further.

He licked his lisp when Sherlock wiped his mouth and fingers fastidiously on his napkin. _Posh boy._

“Why don’t we just read _The Hobbit_?” John suggested as the thought came to him. “Maybe the clue is in the story.”

“Why not?” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s not like my agenda is terribly packed at the moment.”

After they had finished eating, and Sherlock had insisted on doing the washing up, they returned to the games room. Getting comfortable on the sofa, they took turns reading the story aloud to each other.

John delighted at all the voices that Sherlock put on for the various characters. “You know you’re right good at that. Might want to consider a career on the stage if we ever get off this island.”

“Boring.” Sherlock waved it aside.

“Still, you’d be brilliant.”

“Well, acting DOES come in handy occasionally in detective work. It helps to have a variety of skills.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

They read until their voices were sore, and John yawned wide enough to crack his jaw.

“Bed?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “We can always pick this back up again tomorrow.”

“I think so. I’m knackered.” John stretched his arms over his head, and Sherlock’s eyes followed the line of his shirt pulled taught over his chest.

They cradled each other in bed that night, weaving their limbs together, somehow not content to drift off to sleep unless they were touching as much of each other as possible.

 

***

 

In the morning, Sherlock surprised John by fashioning some eggy bread for breakfast out of a packet of rolls from the freezer, and some powdered egg and milk mixed together. He served it up with a small jar of berry jam.

“Shame we don’t have any syrup,” John said, tucking in, “but this is fantastic, thanks.”

“Yes, well, as you said, making do.”

They resumed their reading of _The Hobbit_ after eating, John taking the lion’s share that day. When they got to the part with Smaug, the dragon, Sherlock snorted.

“I thought the dragon in our story was much nicer.”

“Well, yes, Smaug is the villain here. In that other story, the dragon was the princess locked in the tower, the damsel in distress.”

“I am not a damsel in distress.” Sherlock sat up taller. “Anyway it was a ridiculous bit of fluff. My brother has a warped sense of humor.”

“Yeah, I don’t much fancy being a hobbit.” John shook his head.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes twinkling. “You’ve got the height for it.”

“Oi, fuck you, you poncy git. I’m not that short. Just because I don’t have legs that go on for days  . . .”

“You like my legs?” Sherlock leaned in.

“Of course I like your legs. I like all of you. You’re bloody gorgeous.”

“Oh, please.” The blush that stole over Sherlock’s pale skin was delightful. John left off being annoyed with the ridiculous man in favor of pulling him in closer for a kiss. It went on long enough to involve a tangling of tongues, but eventually they parted for air. The flush on Sherlock had settled down to his collar bones, and John wondered how far down it went.

“John, you’re perfect.” Sherlock breathed. “I don’t really want you any other way.”

“Well, thanks.”

“You do still look like a hobbit though.”

“For the love of . . .”

“No, see here, the book has illustrations.” Sherlock reached for the paperback that had tumbled to the floor, paging through it for evidence. When he landed on the picture of the dwarves and the hobbit outside the dragon’s door, he stopped.

“Honestly, this is just silly,” John said. “I don’t . . .”

“John, look.” Sherlock thrust the open page into his face.

“Yeah?” John turned it the right way round. “Oh, it looks like the picture from the Sir Boast A Lot story.”

“Yes, but there’s a difference. There are curly shapes for the words above the door in this picture. It was something different in ours.”

“Oh, you’re right, God. I think I left it in the kitchen.”

When John had retrieved the story, they were able to lay the pictures on the small coffee table side by side to compare. The illustrations were almost exactly alike except that in their story, the inscription over the door looked like a pattern of dots.

“I wonder what it means.” John scratched at his eyebrow.

“Oh.” Sherlock felt that wonderful sensation when something crucial slid into place. He leapt up and headed for the bookcase, searching through the shelves books for the last thing he needed. With a small cry of triumph, he returned holding a dictionary of Braille in his hand.

“Oh, the pattern is Braille,” John said. “Clever you.”

“I wasn’t clever earlier. I knew it looked familiar, but it just didn’t click.”

They paged through the book trying to match the shape of the dot patterns, finally realizing they were numbers. Sherlock got his laptop out, and typed in each number as they found them. When they had finished translating, they had a string of numbers, but no answer as to what it meant. Sherlock tried working out some sort of pattern to no avail.

“It’s useless, John. I don’t know what the numbers _mean_.”  Sherlock fell back to the sofa with a huff. “Stupid, stupid . . .” he trailed off muttering, running a hand back through his hair.

“Well.” John pulled things closer to him. “Okay, we’ve got numbers, a bunch of them . . .” He peered at the drawing again. “Hey look. They seem to be in pairs. There’s a bit of space between each two.”

“Stupid, stupid . . . what?” Sherlock sat back up with start. “Pairs of number. From an illustration in a book. John, it could be a book code.”

“A what?”

“A book code. The first number designates the page and the second number is the specific word chosen. It’s ingenious. Unless you know the book being used, it’s almost impossible to crack.”

“Oh, right.” John watched as Sherlock snatched up the copy of “the Hobbit” to rifle through it. He had his doubts, but as Sherlock typed the words found, sense was actually emerging.

  
_where clothes hang, tap left five times_

 

“That could mean the cupboards downstairs where we first woke up,” John offered.

“Yes, but it could also mean one of the wardrobes in the bedroom where we’ve hung things. It’s closer, let’s start there.”

Again they stood sandwiched belly to belly outside the bedroom door waiting for it to open.

“That was good, Sherlock, really smart figuring the code out.”

“You helped as well, John.” Sherlock grinned. “Still, we can’t rest on our laurels. We’ve yet to put it to practical use.”

“Right.”

When they were finally let into the bedroom, they made a beeline for the nearest cupboard. Sherlock opened it to reveal his line of suits. They quickly pushed them aside to inspect the inside of the small space. Feeling around revealed no knobs, or indentations, no irregularities of any sort. Still they rapped along the walls in bursts of five with their knuckles. John finally found the right spot close to the floor. With a slight snick, the back wall slid aside revealing a small shallow space behind.

John looked up in shock.

“Well, what have we here?” Sherlock’s deep voice rolled out into the silence.

Inside, an array of floggers, paddles, ropes, and silk scarves in various colors hung neatly over pegs in the wall.

“Bloody hell,” John breathed. It looked like a candy shop of BDSM.

If John were truly honest with himself, he felt a rush of something hot and spiky rush through him at the sight of the bondage gear. It wasn’t a part of himself that he thought about much, but it was always there, lingering in the shadows. The idea of submitting, of letting go, letting someone else be in charge. It was a heady concept. Like a rush of cold water though, he remembered that it was Sherlock’s brother, or some other shady governmental cog who had set this up. It made his skin crawl.

“Oh, no. Just no.” John rose to his feet.

“John.” Sherlock blinked at him in surprise. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m no one’s lab rat.” John shook his head.

“Relax.” Sherlock was already reaching for the things, running his fingers over them. “We don’t have to actually USE any of these tools. We just need to search them. They might be another clue.”

John sighed. Reluctantly, he helped Sherlock empty the back of the cupboard, spreading the toys across the carpet of the bedroom floor for further inspection.

John couldn’t help the small frisson that ran up his spine at watching Sherlock pick up a flogger in his elegant fingers, snapping it against the bed with a dull thwack.

“Hmm, nothing unusual about it.” Sherlock inspected the handle, even went so far as to bite down on it.

John picked up the ropes to jolt himself out of staring at the man. They were black, and soft to the touch, but sturdy when tugged on. He found nothing unusual about them, though. They were just ropes.

Methodically they searched over each item until they had reached the conclusion that there was nothing particularly dodgy about any of them besides being proper dungeon toys. John had a crick in his back from sitting on the floor for so long. A glance at the window showed the sun was still out, and it looked like a nice day.

“Okay, I need a break. Let’s grab something to eat and go for a walk.” John was expecting resistance, but Sherlock simply grinned at him.

“Excellent idea. Shake the cobwebs out. Sometimes all you need is a change of scenery for a fresh perspective.”

They ate something simple, gathered coats, and headed for the front door. After each of them had peered at the retinal scanners, the lock popped open, and they ventured out into the bright afternoon light. A fresh breeze carried in the smell of the sea. John pulled in a full lungful of air, and felt more clear-headed already.

They walked easily in comfortable silence, enjoying stretching their legs as they made a circuit around the island. Sherlock continued keep an eye on the fence and the wall, but John just looked at the green grass, and the blue sky stretching over them. A long-necked sea bird flew overhead, squawking loudly, and John stopped to track its progress. Sherlock’s gaze lifted to mirror his.

“Must be nice having all that freedom,” Sherlock observed. “Come and go as you please.”

“Mmm.” John nodded. “Not like us on this island you mean.”

“Oh, perhaps I mean it on a metaphysical level. So much easier being a bird, don’t you think?” Sherlock squinted into the sun that was lowering toward the horizon.

“I suppose. Just eat, sleep and fuck.” John wrinkled his brow. “Do birds fuck?”

“Well, they don’t reproduce by parthenogenesis so I suppose they must.”

A stronger wind whipped over them and John shivered. “Let’s head back.”

Sherlock selected a movie to watch that night while John fetched a half a bottle of wine they hadn’t finished earlier and two glasses from the kitchen. 

“So what did you pick?” he asked, returning to watch Sherlock cue up the machine.

“ _Memento._ ” Sherlock joined him on the sofa. “It looked  . . . not too predictable.”

“Oh, no, it’s not. It’s been ages since I saw it, but I remembered I liked it. Very twisty. It’ll be right up your alley.”

Sherlock shot him a strange look and seemed as if he might say something, but John headed him off, leaning in to kiss him before handing him his wine. “Don’t guess anything ahead of time, just watch it, okay?”

When they returned to the bedroom to sleep, John was somewhat horrified to nearly stumble on the many sex toys still spread across the floor. He’d somehow managed to forget about them. They set about gathering the collection up, dumping it onto the wardrobe floor as the back wall had managed to re-shut itself. 

John didn’t say another word about the bedroom aids, and neither did Sherlock. They rolled together under the covers and had a very satisfying mutual wank. John didn’t think he’d ever get over Sherlock’s beautiful hands. Just having them touch him shot his heart rate up. Everything about Sherlock was so _more_ , more beautiful, more elegant, more brilliant. He wondered idly before he dropped off if Sherlock would have given him a second glance if they’d just met somewhere in London.

The next two days were fairly uneventful. Sherlock went back to his lab and John finished _The Hobbit_ , and then found a novel he hadn’t read yet.

Finally over dinner on the second day, Sherlock drained his water glass, and looked at John. “I think we should try out some of the bondage gear.”

“What?” John put down his fork.

“You were aroused by certain parts of that story involving dominance and submission. By your own admission that’s something you’ve enjoyed in the past. Plus, the sex toys intrigued you. I think we should explore it together.”

“I don’t know about _intrigued_. Some of that stuff scares the crap out of me.”

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t like. It’s not a checklist.” Sherlock looked frustrated that John was being so slow. “It would be about finding out what we both like.”

“Oh, God, Sherlock, I don’t know if I want to get into all that.”

“Why not? You enjoy the fantasy of being dominated.”

John could feel his ears heat. “Well, yeah, I suppose so.”

“How does pain come into it?”

“I don’t know if it does.” John shrugged. “My girlfriend in uni, Julie, we didn’t get that far with it really. She’d handcuff me to the bed, and give me blowjob. It was really just about  . . . oh I don’t know, surrendering to the moment.”

“John, don’t you trust me?”

Sherlock looked so hurt, that John scrambled to reassure him. “NO, love, no. Of course not. Okay, fine. We can try some of it. What the hell.”

“Good. We can start tonight.” Sherlock looked all together too pleased with himself.

“But does this actually interest you too? I mean you aren’t just humoring me . . . or running an experiment?”

Sherlock’s smile dropped. “Are all those things mutually exclusive?”

“No I guess not, I just wanted to make sure . . .”

“Isn’t this what lovers _do_?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Experiment to see what pleases them?”

“Alright, yeah. Of course they do.”

“Good, then it’s settled. Do we have any more of those chocolate biscuits?”

“Yes. We do.” John smiled fondly at him. “Finish your veg first, though.”

 

***

 

John’s nervousness returned when they had adjourned to the bedroom. Sherlock looked so excited though, and John had to admit that just the idea of it had him half-hard in his trousers. They quickly sorted past the floggers, settling on a paddle and the lengths of rope to try.

“What about the things in your bedside table?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, right.” John moved to place his hand down on the scanner, and the drawer popped open. He transferred  the lube, condoms, hand-cuffs and vibrating dildo to the table’s top.

“What do you want to use from that?”

“Erm, hand cuffs to start and see how it goes?”

“Do we need a safeword?”

John looked at Sherlock as if he’d grown two heads.

“Isn’t that the done thing?”

“Yeah, I suppose it can be, but I don’t really fancy anything that intense.” John licked his lips. “How about I just say _stop_ if I want to stop.”

“That works.”  Sherlock nodded.

“How should we . . .”

“Take your clothes off and lie on the bed.” Sherlock hadn’t raised his voice but the tone had taken on a hint of steel that had John peeling off his clothes and lying on the bed before he’d thought twice about it.

“Good, John. Well done.”

John felt something swell in him even though all he’d done was undress and lie down. Sherlock moved slowly, but with purpose, attaching the padded, leather hand cuffs to one of John’s wrists. He threaded the chain through a slat in the headboard before pulling John's other arm up to cuff it alongside. When all seemed secure, he made sure the key was on his bedside table where he could see it.

John licked his lips as he watched Sherlock unwinding a length of rope. He tied it around one of his ankles in a complicated knot, then passing it under the bed, pulled it over to secure the other one. When he pulled on the end, the rope drew taut, effectively pinning John’s legs to the mattress.

“How is that?” Sherlock’s deep, honeyed voice rumbled out soothingly.

“Yeah, good.” John flexed his limbs, finding himself well caught. Rather than struggle, he relaxed into the feeling.

“You need to tell me if your shoulder bothers you.” Sherlock lay a hand gently to the scar on John’s upper chest. “Why don’t we try a number system. One to ten. If all is well it’s a ten, if you need to stop, it’s close to one. Alright?”

“Okay.”

“Do you want a blindfold?”

“Not this time.”

Ah. Sherlock’s mind went off on several tangents. Already John was agreeing to future sessions. That was promising.

Sherlock ran his fingers over John, just the tips, gently stroking him in long passes. _This is your body, it’s connected._ John’s eyes slid closed.

When he passed over John’s armpit, the man twitched. Ah, ticklish there.  Sherlock made a point to avoid the area on his next stroke. He skirted any typical erogenous zones as well, running over the planes of John’s chest, the softness of his belly, the rough fur of his legs. He watched in fascination as John’s cock darkened and swelled.

“What’s the number?” Sherlock asked.

“Um, ten.” John’s voice was already sluggish.

“I’m picking up the paddle.” Sherlock warned waiting to see if John replied. When none was forthcoming, he lifted the small leather thing and used it to stroke over John, almost as if he were covering him with paint.

John’s breathing hitched.

The first strike was light, against the inside of John’s thigh. John startled but said nothing. Sherlock continued dropping light smacks against John’s thighs, inner and outer, along his flank. They left a satisfying bloom on John’s skin.

John writhed in his bonds, pressing his lips tight to remain silent.

“Nuuumbeeer?” Sherlock drawled near his ear.

“Um, ten,” John breathed.

Sherlock reared back and dropped a harder crack against John’s right inner thigh. John finally made a noise at that, deep in his throat.

“Number?”

“Five.”

 _Ah, too much._ Sherlock backed off, dropping the toy. He returned to tracing John’s body with his hand, this time leaning in with a firmer touch, soothing the reddened flesh. John’s cock twitched. With his next pass, Sherlock brushed fingers across John’s ball sack. He was rewarded with a small groan.

“Just a moment.” Sherlock lay a hand to John’s leg as he moved aside to retrieve the lube, a condom, and the inexplicably purple vibrating dildo. He set all on the bed.

I’m releasing your legs so I can have better access to you. John nodded as Sherlock loosened the knots on one leg and freed it, leaving the rope to trail from his other ankle. Pushing John’s legs up in a vee, Sherlock moved in closer. He coated his fingers with slick from the bottle before sliding them between John’s crease seeking the pucker within. A finger slipped inside easily, curling forward.

“Nnngggg.” John bit his lip.

“No, let me hear you.”

Sherlock slipped another finger inside, and allowed a rhythm to form as he rocked his hand into John, pleased when his lover moaned appreciatively.

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Hunugnf?”

“Your shoulder, okay?”

“mmmmm . . . okay.”

“I’m getting the vibrator.”

John gave something like a nod.

Sherlock removed his fingers from John. Plucking the dildo from the bed, he quickly sheathed it in a condom, and applied a liberal dollop of lube to coat.

“Incoming.” Sherlock smiled as he set the toy to John’s arse. After a few gentle pushes, he managed to slide it home.

John grunted in response. Sherlock kept a grounding hand to John’s thigh as he carefully pulled the toy out and slid it back in. He leaned in and licked a stripe over one of John’s nipples.

John thrashed his head back and forth over the duvet, his breath now coming in harsh pants.

“You like that don’t you? Like having your arse stretched open?” Sherlock pitched his voice as low as it would go. “I have to tell you, I love seeing you like this, John. Completely under my control.”  Sherlock flicked the button that turned the vibrations on.

John arched off the bed.

“You’re a mess aren’t you? Begging for it. In fact, why don’t you beg for me. Do you want me to stop, John?”

“Noooo, god, noo.”

“I wonder if you could come from this alone.” Sherlock angled the vibrator to better hit John’s prostrate. John had already begun an on-going keening. It upped in volume.

John’s cock strained against his stomach, hard and flushed. It looked as if it were fairly crying out for a touch. Sherlock ignored it as much as he ignored the throb in his own pants. John looked as though he were in pain though, writhing over the bed.

“I need a number John. One to ten.”

“Ssseven . . . I need, oh I need . . .”

Sherlock shut the vibrator off. John’s ragged breath fell harsh in the resulting silence.

“You want to come, don’t you?”

“Mmmmm, god.” John bit at his lower lip again. “Please.”

“Tell me when you’re getting close.” Sherlock flipped the switch and set the toy buzzing again.

John writhed over the bed.

“Make noise for me, John, make noise and I’ll let you come.”

A symphony of grunts, and groans, and delicious noises of near pain issued from John as Sherlock rotated the toy slowly inside him.  Sherlock placed a hand on his hip. He could _feel_ the vibrations coursing through John.

“I need a number. How do you feel?”

“Fucking . . . fuck . . . ‘leven.”

“Sorry eleven wasn’t part of the initial parameters, but I’ll take that as a positive.”  Sherlock drank in the writhing form that was John. He looked nearly edible with a fine sheen of sweat over him, and a gorgeous flush across his chest. Taking pity on him, Sherlock let a finger swipe along his needy erection.

“Gonna, oh god, gonna . . .”

When Sherlock turned off the toy, John unleashed such a variety of curses, Sherlock couldn't help being impressed.

“Oh no. You’re going to need to be more patient than that.”

“Hnnngggg.” John whined through his nose.

Sherlock set the vibrator going again, before grabbing the lube to slick up his fingers. He leaned forward to take John’s cock in hand, sliding the foreskin along his steely length. John made an unearthly sound of relief.

“Come for me, John. Come for me.”  Sherlock rumbled.

John sobbed when his orgasm finally rolled over him, pumping white stripes over his belly up to his chest.

“Oh, GOD, stop, stop.”

Sherlock lost no time in switching off the vibrator, and removing it to toss aside. He shucked his trousers and pants off in one movement, finally allowed himself to take care of his own aching erection. Climbing over John, he pressed against him, sliding his cock through the mess on his belly, enjoying the sheer heat of him. Quickly he stuttered out his own release, adding to the mess.

When the earth had stopped quaking, Sherlock rolled to the side to lie curled against John. The man had gone charmingly boneless. Sherlock petted over him, soothing him as he came back to himself.

“Number?” Sherlock whispered.

“God, I don’t know. I don’t.” John’s eyes remained tightly closed as he furrowed his brow, eyebrows nearly meeting.

“Shh, shhh, it’s alright.” Sherlock smoothed a hand over John’s side until he had settled again.

When John finally opened his eyes, they had gone liquid. He had never looked more gorgeous.

“I love you.” John smiled.

Sherlock wasn’t sure there was enough room in his heart to contain the feeling that rose over him. “John,” he choked. “I .  .  . too.”

“Would you mind getting my hands free?” John rattled at the hand cuffs.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Sherlock hastened to find the key to release him. As he unlocked John’s first wrist, Sherlock realized the slat of the headboard was wiggling loose in his hand. He quickly unlocked the other cuff, and let John reclaim the use of his arms.

John groaned as he pulled them back down, rubbing his wrists to bring circulation back.

“I think we broke the bed.” Sherlock worried at the strip of wood.

“Oh, well. I suppose we can consider it collateral damage.” John huffed a laugh.

Sherlock made a small cry when the slat slid open and a metal cylinder fell into his palm.

“What? What is it?”

“It was hidden in the headboard,” Sherlock said, sliding down the bed to show John his find. It was small and thin, not unlike a pill carrier. Further examination revealed a top that screwed off.

“God, now what?” John leaned up on one elbow to watch.

Sherlock pulled the cylinder open, and found a curled piece of paper inside. He coaxed it out with his fingers, and spread it flat to read  . . . _Who you really are_.

“What the hell?” John squinted at the message. “What does that mean?”

“No idea. I think tomorrow will be a better time to tackle this though.” Sherlock transferred the tube and the paper to his table.

“Yeah. God, I’m wrung out.” John passed a hand over his face.

 Sherlock reached out to grip John’s shoulder. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“God, you’re thanking me?” John shook his head. “That was incredible. I think I hit the wall I came so hard.”

Suddenly Sherlock couldn’t stand being so far away from John. He scooted down the bed to gather him close.

John hummed a contented sound as Sherlock tugged him into place, still seeming more rag doll than human.  Sherlock squeezed him tight, breathing in the smell of his hair, his throat suddenly feeling tight. When he could speak again, he said in a remarkably steady tone, “Well, that seems like an experiment that bears repeating.”

John huffed a laugh. “Yes, I guess it does.”

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Naughty Hobbit story within the story owes a great deal to two fics I read. If you like inter-species fun of this sort, do check them out . . [Sleeping with Dragons](http://archiveofourown.org/works/258571) and [Sacrifices Must Be Made](http://archiveofourown.org/works/904589)!!!


	2. Sense of Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles to solve the clues, but John helps uncover things, remaining a conductor of light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to ChrisCalledMeSweetie for her fabulous and fast beta services in keeping this chapter compliant with the backstory, and my rogue punctuation in check.

***  
  
_Who you really are._ The phrase continued to vex them.

“Oh, what in Christ does it mean?” John scoffed over breakfast.

“No, don’t get frustrated. It’s a puzzle that can be solved like any other.” Sherlock raised an eloquent eyebrow. “You just need to take logical steps to get there.”

“Okay, where do we start?”

“Who are you, John?”

“A doctor?”

“Good, what else?”

“A soldier.”

“What else have you done, how else do you define yourself?”

“I dunno, I played rugby in uni. Don’t know if that defines me.”

“You also learned the clarinet in school, and began dating in sixth form. You went through a string of girlfriends, before having a secret liaison with one of your male rugby mates. This caused you to break off dating women until . . .”

“Oi, enough about me,” John could feel his face heating. “What about you?”

“Alright.” Sherlock paused a moment. “Genius, consulting detective, high functioning sociopath . . . “

“Okay, that’s bullshit. I don’t know what kind of crap diagnoses you got as a child, but that’s not you. Next.”

“Violinist.”

“Yes, what else?”

“A graduate chemist.”

“Really?”

“Well, I didn’t spring into the world fully formed.” Sherlock spooned up a bite of his cooling porridge. “I had to do something with my youth.”

“Oxford?” John lifted an eyebrow.

“Cambridge,” Sherlock said and downed the bite with a grimace.

“I wish I’d known you then. I bet you looked all swotty in your school jumper and chinos.”

“John, I never wore that at uni.” Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

“What did you wear?”

“Shirts, trousers . . . clothes.” Sherlock flapped a hand.

“Jeans?” John propped his chin up on a fist.

“On occasion.”

“Oh, God.” John licked his lips. “I would have enjoyed peeling you out of them. I bet you were gorgeous.”

“I wasn’t gorgeous. I was a mess.”

“Oh, no, baby, I bet you were beating them off with a stick.”

“Beating who, what?”

“Admirers? Fans?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I think you just didn’t notice them.” John’s eyes went soft. “I can’t believe people didn’t notice you.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Sherlock shrugged “I tried to put as much distance between me and other people as possible. I found them mildly annoying at best.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John shook his head.

 “You’re thinking I didn’t give it enough of a fair go?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Dating . . . relationships . . . sex?” He drew out the last word challengingly.

“I’m thinking the people at Cambridge were idiots.”  John rose to move around the table. He gathered Sherlock against him. Sherlock allowed it, turning to press his face against John’s shirt as John carded fingers through the curls at his nape.

“You’ve had at least twenty sexual partners.” Came somewhat muffled from John’s belly.

John felt himself go over hot. He forced a laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I guess I was a bit of a slag.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being sexually active.” Sherlock pulled back slightly to peer at him. “You tended to date the women for several months at a time, but the men were one-offs, generally one night stands picked up in bars.”

“God, how do you DO that?”

“You weren’t altogether comfortable with being seen as bisexual.” Sherlock’s voice had gone more hesitant.

“Erm . . .” John blew out a breath. He stepped back, ran a hand through his hair as he looked to the floor.

“John, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”

“No, you’re right.” John’s eyes lifted to meet Sherlock’s. “You are. I wasn’t.”

“It’s okay . . .”

“No, it isn’t okay.” John licked his lips. “Sherlock, I’m not ashamed of us. I wouldn’t want to hide us if we ever . . . once we were back in London.”

“Alright.” Something had shuttered in Sherlock’s expression.

 “Sherlock come back to bed with me.” John held out a hand. “If you’ve nothing on today.”

“No, I’ve a few experiments going, but it’s nothing time sensitive.”

“Bed?” John tilted his head, a soft look stealing over his face.

“Of course.” Sherlock smiled.

 

***

 

They lolled most of the day away in bed, starting off with a fantastic shag, bringing each other off with sweetly familiar strokes. John used the toilet afterwards, returning with a wet flannel and a bottle of bath oil. He wiped Sherlock clean and then waggled the oil in front of him.

“Roll over, love and I’ll give you a massage.”

“Alright.” Sherlock complied readily enough, sliding onto his stomach to give John access to the acres of pale, smooth skin along his back.

John climbed over to straddle Sherlock’s thighs, and poured a small pool of oil into his palm. He rubbed his hands together, and leaned in to rub his slicked hands along Sherlock’s shoulders digging in just enough for Sherlock to feel it.

Sherlock let out a sigh of air, and John smiled. He continued stroking along neck and shoulder, upper arm, smoothing his hands over each muscle group, reacquainting himself with how they all fit together.  Sherlock gave out a series of moans as John found knots of tension around the tall man’s shoulder blades, and pressed in with his thumbs to smooth them away.

“God, Jooohn,” Sherlock groaned. His massage voice was very like his sex voice, and John’s cock twitched in appreciation. He scooted back to move his strokes down that gorgeous milk-pale skin, following his knobby spine until he had reached the twin globes of Sherlock’s arse.

“Mmm, you lovely man,” John murmured, ghosting his fingertips over the curve of his bum.

Sherlock groaned from deep in his chest as John set to kneading the muscles of his lush backside in earnest. When John felt Sherlock had melted into the sheets beneath him, he poured a bit more oil on his palms, he continued down to work over the muscles of Sherlock’s long whipcord thighs and calves.

 “God, I love your feet,” John breathed squeezing one between his hands.

“Mmmff?”

“They’re beautiful, long and elegant like the rest of you.” John moved in to lick a stripe over Sherlock's instep. “Never had a foot fetish or anything before, but . . .” He huffed a laugh.

“Mmm.”

John lifted one of Sherlock’s feet to mouth over his toes, and Sherlock giggled, a lovely low-pitched sound. When he took the toes into his mouth to suck, the laughter deepened further into a groan. The exploration over Sherlock’s feet morphed into another round of love making, this time sweet and slow. They finally left the bedroom only when John’s stomach growls became distracting.

“I can’t believe you don’t get hungry,” John complained as they stood pressed against the door, waiting for it to open. His stomach growled again as if in punctuation. John’s mouth twitched a smile.

“I do, just not as often as you do.”

When the lock released, they made their way to the kitchen. John rummaged through the cupboard while Sherlock put on water for tea. John pulled two likely packets of food from the shelf after Sherlock agreed to a chicken with tomatoes thing. Later at the table, John had nearly devoured his chili while Sherlock was still picking over his plate, working to separate the various elements before consuming any of it.

“I can see you aren’t one for stew.”

Sherlock blushed. “I don’t like blobs of tomato.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” John raised a placating hand. “I just wish we had more of what you liked.”

“I’m not that picky.” He speared a chicken bit defiantly.

“Well, even I’m getting a bit tired of food in a bag.” John scraped up the last in his bowl. “God, I didn’t think I’d miss take-out so much, but there was an Indian place down the street, did a mean lamb vindaloo. Mmmm. I could murder an order of that with some naan.”

Sherlock looked up with a smile. “I have a favorite Chinese place. I used to stop by least once a week. They stayed open until 2 am on weekends.”

“Ah, glad to hear you DID eat occasionally.”  John took his dish to the sink, and busied himself making another cup of tea before returning to the table.

“The Arsenals,” John said after a contemplative sip.

“What’s that?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“The Arsenals, football team?” John leaned in with a laugh, setting his elbows to the table top. “Don’t tell me you’ve deleted football?”

“I remember football. I just don’t bother myself with the details. What about the team?”

“I keep wondering how they’re doing this season. It’s weird, not getting any news of any sort here. I mean I don’t know what’s going on with wars, or elections or natural disasters, but it’s not knowing how the Arsenals are doing that bothers me the most. I always kept an ear out.”

“Ah, so being a sports fan is part of _who you are_.”

“Oh, yeah, right. You think that might be a clue?”

“It’s possible.” Sherlock looked excited.

“Alright so I watch footie, I played rubgy . . . naw, I dunno. What about you?"

“I watched Wimbledon a few times on the telly,” Sherlock admitted.

“Hmm, it isn’t much to work with.” John took another sip from his cup.

“No, you’re right.”  Sherlock pushed back his plate half-finished, giving it up for lost.

“Maybe there’s something in the games room? We could poke around and find things we like there.” John shrugged. “It might lead to something.”  

“Well, we’ve looked at it all before, but there’s no harm in trying again.” 

After finishing up in the kitchen, they moved to the games room. They had already looked through the books, so they pawed through the DVDs, and the games and the sheet music. Nothing yielding any new clues about who they really were.

“What about your lab?” John flopped into a chair. “You’re a scientist. That’s part of who you are.”

Sherlock gave a half shrug. “I’ve been all over the place, but perhaps you can come to it with a fresh eye.”

John followed him to the lab room. He poked around the glassware, and equipment, listened to Sherlock explain what he was currently working on, and then admitted defeat. Nothing unusual jumped out from the usual. With a sigh and a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, John left him to his work.

He passed by the freezers, on his way out, opening them to check on their food supplies. By and large, the best things left to them were still frozen.  John poked around, making a mental inventory of what was there. He said a silent prayer of thanks that they weren’t still reduced to wandering around in the dark hunting for packets of snacks, when an idea occurred to him – a picnic of sorts. It would be something fun to do, and a way to get Sherlock to try some new foods. He chose some things to thaw, taking them back to the kitchen, then poked through their packaged goods to add to his collection.

When Sherlock finally emerged in the evening, John was ready to put his plan into action.

“John.” Sherlock looked almost surprised to find him reading in the kitchen. “There you are.”

“Well, it’s not like I have too many places to go.” John smiled. “Are you hungry, then?”

“I could eat,” Sherlock said, looking about. “What’s on?”

“Well, I had an idea for that, something new to try.”

“New is good. What?”

 “A blind supper.”

“And that would be?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

“Something my sister, Harry, told me about. She went to a restaurant once that did it. You eat a meal completely in the dark, can’t see a thing. They get blind waiters and everything. It’s supposed to focus your senses so you enjoy the food more.”

“Sounds intriguing, but what are the practical . . .”

“I’ve got it all set up. A picnic in the clue box room. We can turn off the light and it’ll be pitch black in there. I’ll feed you.”

“Okay.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “But what if I don’t like something?”

“Then you don’t have to eat anymore of it, berk.” John laughed at the face Sherlock pulled. “I’ll bring you a bowl so you can spit out whatever you don’t like,” he added.

“Fine, do I get to feed you too?”

“Sure, why don’t you choose some things.”

Once Sherlock had filled a few bowls and set them on a tray, they moved to the room with the large central cube that served as a hallway in their living space. Sherlock smiled at the cushions and the box of food that John had already set up for them. When Sherlock had settled himself with his back against the cube, John moved to douse the lights. The complete darkness was unsettling.

“Wow, can’t see a thing.” John moved as gingerly as he could away from the wall.

“Well, that is rather the idea,” Sherlock drawled.

“Keep talking, I’ll follow your voice.” John reached out with his hands.

“I’m here, right here, in front of you. Wouldn’t it be nice if humans could use echolocation as well as bats?”

John felt an unreasonable relief when his hands found the edge of the large cube and then moved to connect with a curly head of hair.

“I don’t want to step on the food.”

“Relax. I’ve got my tray in my lap and yours is on the far side of your cushion. Just go slowly.”

John moved as carefully as he could, relieved when he sank down to the cushion without a mishap. He reached out to find his box of food and slid it closer beside him.

“Okay, then. Who goes first?” John grinned in the dark. The whole thing was a bit silly, but a rush of excitement tingled over him just the same.

“You can since it was your idea.” Sherlock’s deep chocolate of a voice was even more potent in the dark.

 “Alright.” Using only his sense of touch, John groped around over his bowls and cups, until he’d oriented himself, trying to remember what he’d put where. He lifted a small bowl and sniffed. Perfect. Carefully John lifted a bit of the soft food from the cup and leaned in toward Sherlock, using his other hand to pat over the man until he’d found his face. It was a delight to smooth fingers over Sherlock’s jaw until he found his plump lips already parted for him. Carefully, he fed Sherlock the bite, enjoying the feeling of his lips and tongue taking it from his hand.

“Mmm. Peach?” Sherlock rumbled.

“Yeah, I found some in the freezer. Want another?”

“Yes.”

John proceeded to feed Sherlock the rest of the peach slices in the bowl, guiding each one to his waiting mouth.

“Alright, your turn.”

John leaned forward, and opened his mouth. It only took Sherlock’s clever fingers a few moments to find him. He popped something onto John’s tongue that exploded in a metallic, salty brine when he bit down. It wasn’t his favorite, but it was interesting. He moved it around in his mouth as he chewed, focusing on the feel and taste of it.

“Oyster,” John proclaimed after swallowing.

“Clever boy. Want another?”

“It was a bit salty. Maybe something else?”

“Of course. Don’t bite down.” Sherlock’s hand returned to feed John something he had to suck off the offered finger, this one creamy and deliciously sweet.

“Mmm, custard.” John swirled his tongue around the digit. “Are we having dessert first?”

“Life is short, eat dessert first – isn’t that what they say?” Sherlock’s voice had gone a bit breathy.

John giggled, and found something else to feed Sherlock. “Here, you next. Open up.” He proceeded to feed Sherlock a small jar of olives one after the other as the man mouthed them from his fingertips, groaning his appreciation. Delightful.  Somehow John got a sense of where Sherlock was in the dark even without echolocation. He just knew.

They took turns feeding each other, lingering over the fingers bringing each bite of sweet, or savory carefully scooped up and delivered in the comforting womb of dark. When Sherlock dripped jam down John’s chin, there was no other course but for Sherlock to lean in and lick it from his face, giving sticky kisses sliding down his neck.

They leaned back into the cushions to have each other then, peeling away their clothes to uncover warm skin. John scooped up something and smeared it over Sherlock, licking away what turned out to be honey with gusto. Sherlock giggled and then groaned as John’s tongue made it down to his cock, hot and hard, reaching up to John in the blackness. John wrapped a hand around the base, licking slow, broad stripes up the shaft as Sherlock mumbled encouragement, his hand coming up to tangle in John’s hair.

Like a prayer, John opened wide to receive the length of him into his mouth. He relaxed his throat, losing himself utterly in a universe that was nothing but the heft of this cock on his tongue, the musky smell of his lover laced with the sweet of honey, and the movement of them together, pushing and pulling, divine clockwork. Sherlock swelled even further, giving a strangled gasp as the only warning before the salty gush of Sherlock’s orgasm filled his mouth. John swallowed reverently, pulling back to lick him clean as Sherlock’s pulses came to an end.

“God, John, come here.” Sherlock pulled John into his arms until their mouths could connect. Sherlock kissed him greedily, licking into him, no doubt tasting himself on John’s welcoming tongue.

Sherlock’s hand found John’s cock still achingly hard between them and gently squeezed.

“Naughty boy, playing with your food,” he growled by John’s ear, sucking at the sensitive spot behind his jaw as he fondled John balls, returning to massage over his cock.

John gasped at the rush of sensation that flowed unchecked over his body, letting it simply sweep him away. He whimpered slightly as it stopped, the warmth of Sherlock disappearing as he rolled away.

“Shh, I’m right back.” The comforting hand returned to his cock, now wet, better sliding along his length.

“John, sweet man, beautiful boy,” Sherlock murmured along John’s neck between nips and licks as his hand worked magic pumping over John below. The pleasure rolled over him in waves pulling him under until John exploded, crying out his release into Sherlock’s mop of curls.

They lay together afterwards, catching their breath until the spills over their skin felt more annoying than erotic.

“Oh God, that was intense,” John breathed.

“Hmm, obviously the lack of visual cues does enhance tactile stimulus.”

“So you liked it?” John smiled, though Sherlock couldn’t see it.

“It was . . . enjoyable, but sticky.” Sherlock’s frown came through in his voice.

“Ugh, I can’t wait to see the mess we made.”

Gently they extricated themselves and made their way upright. John cursed as he stumbled over a bowl of something on his way to locate the light switch. The dim light of the room seemed shocking after the pitch black, and John had to laugh outright at the image of Sherlock blinking up at him, covered in smears of food, a cracker stuck to his side. He looked down at the mess along his own body, running a finger through his matted pubic hair to sniff.

“Christ, Sherlock, did you just bring me off with golden syrup?”

“You didn’t seem to mind at the time,” Sherlock smirked.

“No, I supposed I didn’t.” John shook his head, surveying the food they’d managed to spill across the floor. Despite the cleanup they had before them, he decided it had been worth it.

“I think it’s time for a shower,” Sherlock said, plucking off his pants still tangled around one ankle.

“God, yes.” John snorted, scratching at a patch of dried syrup that was beginning to flake off his body.

 

***

Sherlock went back to his experiments in the morning, and they fell into a bit of a routine over the next few days. “Who you really are” remained up in the air as a puzzle to solve. One evening, they went through the CD’s trying to play each other songs they enjoyed to see if that sparked any ideas. John ended up trying to teach Sherlock to do the Macarena, and Sherlock insisted John get the rudiments of a Tango down. It was silly fun, but nothing clue-worthy came of it.

One afternoon as Sherlock was back in his lab, John rambled a bit at loose ends, giving the kitchen sink a proper cleaning, before ending up in the games room. He flipped through the shelf of movies, trying to find something he hadn’t watched before, eventually settling on a kids’ film.

With a shrug, John popped open “Balto 2: Wolf Quest” and fed the disc into the DVD player. It was about a family of talking dogs. The father was half-wolf and touchy about it, not wanting to be singled out as different. The mum had a litter of pups with one that looked more wolf than her da. When the pups were set for adoption, and the one who looked like a wolf was passed up, John shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. Christ, it was just a cartoon. Later she ran away and the father had to fetch her from the woods. John found himself getting into it, the music wasn’t half bad. He chuckled at himself, glad Sherlock wasn’t in the room to tease him over it.

When the daughter encountered a singing mouse giving advice, John sat up. The song kept repeating “Who you really are.” John listened all the way through, excited, before running for Sherlock.

“Sherlock!”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked up from where he was bent over his microscope. He had his safety goggles pushed back, rucking his fringe up. It reminded John how overdue they both were for a haircut.

“I think I might have found a clue.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock tore off the goggles and followed John back to the games room.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose when John first showed him the movie, but then he listened more avidly, getting out his laptop so they could copy the song’s lyrics.

 _You must go to the east, go to the west,_  
The road is rocky and the way is far.  
It's a dangerous trail, a difficult quest,  
If you want know who you really are...

 _There are voices all around you,_  
To comfort and to guide you.  
Fathers and teachers,  
Powerful creatures.  
And a voice that sings inside you.

 _Or you can turn back around,_  
Run along home.  
Back to the place where your friends are.  
Perhaps that is best,  
You need the rest.  
Who wants to go on a ridiculous quest?

 _Unless you want to know,_  
You truly want to know,  
Unless you want to know...

_Who you really are._

“Fascinating.” Sherlock tapped a finger against his lip, slumping back in his chair as he considered the words on the screen.

“So, do you think it’s really a clue or just a coincidence?”

“It is possible to see patterns and connections where none exist, but there’s no harm in treating it like a clue.”

“Okay, so east, west, rocky road, far to go, dangerous trail, quest . . .” John scratched at the back of his head. “Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe we’re supposed to walk around the island again?”

“We’ve been around the island a number of times, and nothing of note has presented itself. Our trip through the maze inside though, navigating in the dark to find these rooms, that was quite a trek.”

“God, you’re right. So maybe we’re meant to go back through?”

“It’s a safe assumption.” Sherlock nodded. “But this time, we can bring the laptop, and use the light from the screen as a makeshift torch.”

“Oh bloody hell, that’s magnificent. I’d like to see all of it in the light. It’s been so weird going through it in the dark.” 

Sherlock grinned. “Let’s do it.”

The few times, they had felt their way through the dark labyrinth to fetch things left behind had felt like a chore. Now though, the thought of exploring with a light appealed to John. It was a chance to see something new.

They moved through the cube room, the floor thankfully now clean, to find the door that would take them into the maze. Sherlock opened a blank page on the laptop, and turned the screen to its brightest level. Once they had unlocked the door. Sherlock led, holding the screen before him to light the way. John blew out a whistle.

“God, there it is.”

The space wasn’t nearly as intimidating when they could see it, just a rectangular room with a number of waist-high walls bisecting it. It was easy to move about the maze guided by the light from the computer screen. John could still detect the faint sour odor of piss from when they’d been forced to make a makeshift toilet in a side of the room, but thankfully it had dissipated in the intervening months.

“So are we looking for anything in particular here?”

“Who knows? We might as well investigate whatever we can,” Sherlock said, sweeping the light from the laptop about to better illuminate parts of the room.

Beyond finding out that the walls were painted an off-white, and the partitions were a tan color, there wasn’t much else to see . John decided to make a game out of finding any snacks still left in any of the dispenser areas. Gleefully he darted about in the dim glow of the laptop, smacking his and Sherlock’s hands on any scanners they could find in the half-walls, and chortling each time a stray bag of crackers or nuts popped out.

“You never know when we might NEED this extra stuff.” John said a bit defensively, stuffing another foil packet into his pocket.

“No, by all means, go ahead.” Sherlock followed along behind him, holding the computer up to light the way, and allowing John to periodically manhandle him onto the scanners.

They repeated their explorations on the lower level of the maze as well, finding nothing more astounding than some packets of beef jerky, and a small box of dried cherries.

When it became apparent that nothing else of interest was to be found on either level of the labyrinth, and John seemed to have exhausted the snacks supply, they moved to the retinal scanners to open the hallway to the cells.

The bright light in the hallway as the door slid open was a welcome sight, and Sherlock closed the laptop with a snap. He left the computer on the floor near the door as they proceeded to open the line of cupboard doors, searching for anything they might have passed by before. Sherlock found a tie that he had abandoned in one of his storage rooms, obviously something Mycroft had snidely included in amongst his personal items. Sherlock never wore ties. He picked it up with a snort of disgust and examined the thing, but there was nothing to mark it as special in any way. He took a perverse delight in tossing it back to the cupboard floor, before stepping back to let the door slide shut.

“Find anything?” John joined him from his explorations.

“Nothing much. You?”

“Nope.” John shook his head. “Just bare cupboards.”

“Why don’t we try the holding cell area? Perhaps there’s something there.”  
  
“Yeah, okay.”

They stood on either side of the doorway, letting the retinal scanners register them before the entranced opened. John walked in first, with Sherlock close behind.

“God, it feels like forever since we first started out here, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock glanced about at the bland walls, and simple inset doors, and huffed a small laugh. “Yes, it does.”

He couldn’t help thinking about the angry, wrapped-in-himself man who’d first arrived here, caring for nothing but escape. It seemed light years away from when he had laid eyes on John Watson and thought only of how to trick his way past the man. What a fool he’d been.

“John?” He turned toward his . . . friend? Lover? Partner? They hadn’t really come up with any terms. It hadn’t been necessary here with just the two of them. They knew what they were to each other.

John was inspecting the walls for anything they might have missed earlier. He turned back around, his brows ceased. “Hey, yeah, I’m right here, love.” He lay a comforting hand to Sherlock’s arm. “You alright?”

“Yes, it’s just . . . it’s cold in here, isn’t it?”

The facility was reasonably warm throughout all the rooms, but John had to agree there was a bit of a chill,  psychological if not temperature-wise, in this clinical-looking dorm space.

“I don’t fancy staying over here any longer than we need to.” John glanced up at the brass name plates that still adorned the sides of the rooms they had both woken up in. “Look, our names. I’d forgotten about that.”

“I’d assumed you were a doctor working here when I saw your name.” The side of Sherlock’s mouth tipped up wryly as they both glanced at “Dr. John Watson.” 

“Yeah? I thought you were some fancy administrator.” John huffed a laugh.

“I think we were both clouded by preconceived notions.”

“I’d say so.” John smiled. “Who knew I’d run into such a beautiful posh boy in a place like this?” He drew Sherlock closer for a kiss that reassured them both.

When they parted, John squinted back at this nameplate.  “I dunno, somehow I don’t want to leave these here. It feels like leaving a bit of ourselves behind. I’d rather take them with us.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Fine by me.” 

John reached up to see if the nameplate would come away, and was surprised when it peeled away from the wall with hardly any effort.

“Well, no worries . . .” John flipped the small sign over and stopped, surprised when he found something etched across the back: _59, 7, 16.6, N._ “Oh bloody hell, look at this, Sherlock. I think we found our clue.”

“Brilliant.” Sherlock turned to peel “Mr. Sherlock Holmes” up as well, turning the small sign over to find a similar etching behind it: _5, 48, 53.3, W._ “So, we were looking for _who you really are_ in a very literal sense.”

“Har, har, har.” John snorted. “Just hilarious. But what does it mean?”

“Ah, John. It means we have another mystery to solve.” Sherlock grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone got an idea what the clue means? I bet John and Sherlock do. It's pretty easy if you know about this sort of thing. ;)
> 
> Also, if anyone is interested, dining in the dark IS a thing at a number of restaurants either as an on-going or special event. Go look it up. ;)


	3. Sense of Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solving the puzzle leads Sherlock and John closer and closer to their escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tweaked the coordinates in the last chapter to match an island called North Rona Island. It's listed as the most northern point of the U.K. and is so far away from the other islands, it's often left off of maps. I know it has a lighthouse located there, and while there probably ISN'T a fenced-off top secret governmental facility there at the moment, who's to say there might not be one built in the future? ;)

***

“Wait, that looks so familiar . . .” John stared at the numbers and letters. “I think it’s  . . .”

“Latitude and longitude,” Sherlock said as John finished with “ . . . coordinates.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock nodded. “I think we just found our location on a map.”

“But what good does it do us?” John narrowed his eyes. “It’s not like we’ve got a GPS tracker on us.”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock lifted a shoulder, “but it’s still excellent information, and hopefully something we can use to our advantage.”

Another quick look around the place confirmed the name plates were the only points of interest in the boring, grey rooms.  John drank some water from the sink of the bathroom before they decided to head back to their living quarters. Sherlock gathered up the laptop at the door to the maze, and popped it open to use as a guide as they moved back through the unlit space.

John gave a sigh of relief as they left the labyrinth behind, stepping back into the cube room. It was good to be back home, he thought, and had to smile at himself as Sherlock punched in the code for the door to the front rooms. When had he started thinking of this mad place as home? One glance over at the riot of dark curls beside him, and he had his answer. This man was his home now, wherever that was.

The realization shook him a bit. He and Sherlock had come on fast together. John had no way of knowing if this little hothouse romance would survive the harsh light of the outside world. God, he hoped it would. It felt secure on his end, but who knew about the other man? Sherlock would have so many more things to occupy him other than a few pieces of equipment in a lab and a broken-down, ex-army doctor when they got off the island.

“We don’t have a map or a GPS device, but we can still determine our coordinates,” Sherlock said, making a beeline for his lab when the door whooshed open.

“Okaaay, how do we do that?” John trailed after him.

“I just need a few things . .  .”

John watched, somewhat baffled as Sherlock flitted about the room digging through drawers, plucking things out to make a small pile on a desktop. John lifted the protractor, looking at the bit of string, a weight, a compass, and the ruler beneath. Sherlock gave a cry of delight, returning with a hammer and a box of nails he’d unearthed from somewhere to add to his collection.

“So what’s all this, then?” John asked. “Doing a bit of remodeling, are we?”

“More like boy-scouting,” Sherlock said. “We’re going to make a sun dial and a device to determine our coordinates, see if it matches what we’ve been given.”

“Ah, alright.” John licked his lips.  

“Damn, we need to wait for mid-day for the shadows to be right, though.”

“Yeah, okay.” John tilted his head to better regard Sherlock. A waterfall of curls had spilled over his forehead, and he looked so delightfully flushed, a manic gleam dancing in his seawater eyes. John had to smile. These puzzles were good for him.

Sherlock set about making his contraption. With wood that they fetched from the woodshed, they managed to create two rough planks that Sherlock fashioned into a cross with the crossbeam attached lightly so it could rotate. He fussed for some time hammering in four protruding nails into the ends and sides of the beam and attaching the protractor in the center with a plumb line dangling from it before declaring it ready.

Thankfully the weather was mild the next day, and John enjoyed the chance to spend some time in the sun, even bringing food along and making a real picnic of it, helping Sherlock as needed. The first steps of his grand plan had involved sticking the ruler in the ground, using the weight tied on a string to make sure it was standing level. After using the compass to determine north, he scratched a small north-south line in the dirt with a nail beside it.

“When the shadow of the ruler crosses the line, we’ll know it’s noon,” Sherlock announced. “The shadows at high noon will let us determine our coordinates.”

“Excellent.” John smiled, taking a bite of his sandwich, enjoying the way Sherlock’s trousers clung to his bum as he bent over more than the lessons.

Sherlock stood and squinted at the sun before picking the spot for his quadrant contraption nearby, asking John to help him set it up.

 “Alright, MacGyver,” John said, brushing crumbs off his lap as he stood.

“MacGyver?” Sherlock’s brow crinkled as he frowned.

“American telly show. I saw it when I was kid.” John smiled. “It had this bloke who could make weapons and things out of stuff lying about, bottles, gum wrappers, light bulbs . . .” he trailed off as Sherlock stared at him. “Ah, it doesn’t matter. What do we need to do?”

Sherlock showed him the spot, and John helped him dig the hole to set the cross upright, making sure it was parallel to the north-south line in the dirt. He then convinced Sherlock to join him on the blanket as they waited for noon to arrive, and eat some of the little pickles he enjoyed and half a ham sandwich.

Sherlock leapt up when the shadow of the ruler overlapped the line in the ground, fiddling with the crossbeam to align things, scribbling his findings with a notebook and pencil he’d managed to locate.

John leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the heat of the sun on his face, breathing in the slight tang of salt on the breeze. His belly was comfortably full, and he could hear the sound of Sherlock muttering to himself nearby. For just a moment, John felt complete right where he was. There was absolutely nowhere else he wanted or need to be. If he could just stop time and stay here forever, it would be . . .

The light behind his eyelids winked out. “John, wake up. I need your help to move the quadrant.”

John cracked an eye to find Sherlock, a riot of curls silhouetted against the sun, looming over him.

“Yeah, right, where to?”

Sherlock showed him, and dutifully John helped him drag the device up and reposition it farther along the field.  They came outside every morning before noon for several days, moving the cross around the island so Sherlock could tilt the crossbeam and measure the angle between the shadows of the nails and the hanging plumb line.  John admitted to not completely understanding the whole process, but simply enjoyed trailing after Sherlock, and basking in the good weather.

The rest of their days were spent in individual pursuits. Sherlock had unearthed parts of the corpse in the freezer and was busy with increasingly smelly experiments that kept John far away from his lab. Left to his own devices, John picked up the laptop and tried his hand at writing some stories. He’d done a bit of writing back in his uni days, and the hobbit and dragon tale inspired him. After a few aborted war stories, he started on an epic tale of two men trapped on an island  together, loosely basing it on their own strange situation. He refused to let Sherlock read any of it until he was several chapters in, but then agreed, finding that Sherlock’s contributions greatly helped the story.

“No, John, you wouldn’t find hot springs in this area of the world, best make it closer to Iceland.”

“Right, yeah, okay.”

Still, John felt an itchiness building between his shoulder blades. He spent long moments looking out the windows as Sherlock worked in his lab, watching the clouds scuttle across the sky. He wondered what he might have done differently in his life, and if it still would have brought him into Sherlock’s path.

Sherlock seemed content to wrap himself up in his experiments for long hours. If given his druthers, Sherlock would have worked through dinner, but he agreed with John that he could be interrupted to come join him in an evening meal. If John cooked, he’d clean, no questions needed.

In bed, Sherlock reached out to him before turning off the bedside lamp. “Are you tired?” His voice was hesitant, still not used to the easy exchange between lovers.

“Never too tired for you, love,” John said.

“Do you want . . .”

“I want . . . something a little different, if you’re up for it.”

“Tell me.”

“I want you to tie me up again, but hold me down, take me from behind. A little rough.”

“Blindfold?”

John thought a moment. “Yes.”

“Do you know me?”

“No.” John felt the grin creasing his face. “I don’t think I do.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock returned the smile.

John stripped off the tee shirt and briefs he slept in, watching as Sherlock leapt up with boyish enthusiasm to fetch the supplies. Moving the covers aside, John lay himself face down over the middle of the bed, stretched out in offering. He let Sherlock manhandle each of his wrists into lengths of rope tied separately to the headboard, the slats all holding firmly. For a moment John felt like Sherlock’s quadrant contraption, and it sent a shiver down his spine. Carefully then, Sherlock looped a black silk scarf around his eyes, securing it tightly behind his head. Already John felt himself relaxing into it.

“Alright?” Sherlock’s voice came from nearby. His warm palm settled across John’s bare back.

“Yes.” John nodded, his cheek scratching on the sheet beneath him.

“You’ll tell me if you don’t like anything? Immediately?”

“Yes, yes of course.” John felt a quick spike of irritation. He wanted to stop thinking.

“Alright.” The mattress shifted as Sherlock’s weight moved off the bed. 

Footfalls and the whoosh of the door to the bathroom told John that he had left the room. He blew out a breath and willed himself to settle, relaxing into the bonds that held his wrists fast.

When the sound of the door snicking open came to him, John’s senses jumped to high alert, his ears pricked for any sound. He was disappointed when Sherlock made no noise that he could track as he crossed the carpet. After a squirmy minute, the breath caught in his throat when a pressure gripped the back of his neck and skull like a vise, driving the side of his face into the mattress.

“What have we here?” A voice like dark, liquid velvet poured over his ears. “Looks like someone left me a little present.” Fingers wrapped around to press against his throat. The grip wasn’t hard enough to cut off any air, but it certainly announced that it could if desired.

John felt the blood rushing to his cock.

“Mmmm. I like surprises.” The pressure released as long, nimble fingers moved to trail down his back, landing to cup the curve of his arse. “Especially when they’re as nice as this one.” With a quick squeeze, the fingers retreated.

John made the tiniest sound of regret.

“Oh, demanding, are we?” Sherlock’s voice continued to rumble out at some subsonic level that seemed to set John’s very cells vibrating. “Well, we can fix that.  Slaves aren’t allowed to demand anything.”

The sharp crack of the paddle over the arse cheek just squeezed caught John completely off-guard. He jerked in his bonds, crying out loudly without meaning to. A hand returned to cradle the sore spot, not moving, simply offering comfort with its presence. Once John had relaxed, it was removed.

The spanking resumed, not hard, but not just for show either. Smacks alternated on each of John’s buttocks until he was writhing against the mattress, seeking any sort of friction for his throbbingly hard erection.

“Stop. Enough of that.” Sherlock’s command rang out as a hand gripped his hip, digging into his abused flesh.

John stilled his rocking pelvis with some difficulty, his panting breath harsh in his own ears.

“Here, up on your knees.” Sherlock helped John to get his legs under him, letting him rise up to knees and elbows.

The snick of a bottle top opening was followed by the cold jolt of something wet being dragged up the crack of his arse. John startled, but a soothing hand petted over his back, gentling him as the slick fingers continued to explore. A finger found the furled bud of his entrance, and worried over it, slicking it before diving in.  John groaned as it retreated only to plunge back in, quickly setting up a rhythm. A stretch and slight burn told him when another finger had arrived to join it. The angle changed slightly and a burst of - _oh god yes, there -_ sideswiped him. John pushed back, unable to hold still any longer. His untouched cock bobbed up to hit his belly, and he whimpered slightly.

The other hand slid into his hair, scratching lightly over his scalp. It sent shivery trails down his spine that blossomed suddenly into pain as a handful of hair was grabbed up and pulled, hard.  John arched back into it, easing some of the pressure. He could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his side, and he leaned into it, finding it grounding in the swirl of sensations. _God, had he ever been this hard?_

“Don’t come,” Sherlock growled by his ear. “You’re mine, and I say when you can come.”

“God, I can’t . . . I can’t  . . .”

All sensation stopped as the warmth left his side. John couldn’t help the sigh of frustration. It was a bit maddening not being able to see anything. He pulled at the ropes on his wrists.

“Shhhh.” Hands were back on him, and thank all that is holy, gripping his aching cock, and balls.  Senstation assaulted him as Sherlock fiddled with something, maneuvering him. John felt a squeezing where his penis met his scrotum and gasped.

“It’s the cock ring,” Sherlock purred. “It should hold you off for awhile.”

John bit his lip, adjusting to the pressure, _mmm good_ , as fingers returned to his arse, pushing in, rocking, rocking. The pleasure washed over him but his shoulder was starting to shake holding his weight. John felt a whine building behind his teeth.

Movement came, a dipping of the mattress, Sherlock climbing over him. Slick fingers moved to be replaced by a wider, blunt force pushing in. Sherlock drove into him, John gasped as Sherlock’s cock filled him, only to retreat, and charge back in. John’s fingers gripped the sheet as he held on, absorbing the punishing thrusts threatening to send him into the headboard. Sherlock, paused, shifted a moment, and the ring constricting the base of John’s cock and his ball sack began to buzz. The vibration seemed to travel all the way up his spinal cord, shaking every last neuron on fire. John gasped.

Sherlock’s full weight returned, bearing him down, pushing, pushing until John’s legs went out and he collapsed fully onto the mattress. John felt his face mash into the bedding as the weight caged him, consumed him, pressing in on all sides. Lights exploded behind his eyes, loud noises, pain, need to move, get away. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fucking _breathe_. He was breaking up, falling apart . . .

The next John knew, he was on his back, untied, in Sherlock’s lap.

“John, are you okay? John?” Sherlock ran a hand up and down along his arm.

John’s eyes fluttered open. No more blindfold. John’s throat hurt, and his nose was clogged. He ran a hand over his face. It came away wet. _Shit, he’d been crying._

“What?” He blinked, trying to bring Sherlock into better focus.

“John, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I think you had a panic attack.”  Sherlock’s face twisted up in concern. “Has this happened to you before?”

“God, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . . it’s been awhile.” John drew in a ragged breath, still trying to get his bearings.

“It’s alright.” Sherlock gathered him closer, circling a hand over his back. “You’re safe here, you’re okay.” John felt himself relax, pressing his face against the warmth of Sherlock’s chest.

Later, when Sherlock had tidied things away, and put the bedding to rights, they lay back down to go to sleep.

“John, I’m so sorry” Sherlock turned to him in the dark. “I bodged it all up.”

“No, you didn’t. It was all me. I asked you to do that scene. I just . . . I didn’t know it was going to go tits up like that.”

“Perhaps we do need a word,” Sherlock said softly. “A safeword.”

“I dunno.” John sighed. “I felt . . . overwhelmed before I knew it.”

“I should have noticed.”

“Sherlock, stop. It happened. It’s okay . . . I don’t blame you.”

“Alright.”  Sherlock’s voice was tentative, so different from his daytime tone. “Has that happened often  . . .”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Sherlock.” John rolled onto his side to face the wall.

“Good night.” Sherlock sounded as if he wanted to add more, but didn’t.

Eventually, John drifted off to sleep.

 

***

Sherlock was a little formal with him the next morning, and John didn’t know what to say to set things right. They had breakfast together as usual, and then Sherlock all but fled to his experiments. John poked at his story in progress a bit, and then gave it up for a loss that morning, shutting the cover on the laptop. He just couldn’t concentrate.

He ended up popping a video into the player, a Bond flick he’d seen before and liked, but then he hardly watched that either.

Finally, before mid-day, Sherlock reappeared, needing John to help him unlock the front door to go out and continue his measurements. John sighed, trailing after Sherlock with his hands in his pockets. Sherlock stalked quickly off with his notebook ready to record another day’s numbers.

John gazed after the tall, lanky form fiddling with his contraption for awhile, a fondness sweeping over him before turning to watch the clouds. One of them looked exactly like Canada. A crash and a shout had him turning quickly back to Sherlock. The cross was on the ground, and the man was kicking it while cursing it loudly.

“Stupid fucking, sodding fuck . . .”

“Hey.” John hurried over, alarmed. “What happened?”

“This is useless.” Sherlock sucked in a breath as he stepped back from his device. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It won’t work.”

“Hey now, we can set it back up .  . .”

“Didn’t you hear? It. Won’t. Work.” Sherlock rounded on him. “I should have admitted it from the start. This isn’t the right solution.” He moved away to pace in a tight track, waving his arms. “I can’t get an accurate enough reading for it to be meaningful. I know the coordinates given are on the island, but there’s no way I can pinpoint it to any degree of accuracy . . . this was useless.”  He moved back to give the cross another swift kick, miscalculated, and promptly fell on his arse.

John tried not to laugh. Sherlock look so put out, John held in his giggles to offer him a hand.

 “Come on, let’s go have lunch. We’ll think of something else later.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled upright, and only grousing slightly, followed John back to the building.

After lunch, John suggested playing some board games, and Sherlock readily agreed. They played a game of chess where Sherlock promptly beat the pants off of John, and suitably cheered, agreed to a few rounds of Scrabble where they decided any word was acceptable if they could make a good enough argument for it.

Afterwards, Sherlock played John a full concert on his violin, and seemed back to his usual self by the time dinner rolled around. John unearthed a package of éclairs from the freezer that they split with tea instead of having anything sensible. When Sherlock commented on John’s right to his medical license slipping, he just unearthed a blob of cream from his pastry and held it out for Sherlock to lick off his finger.

“Rules are made to be broken occasionally.” He shrugged.

Clean-up was minimal, and John pulled Sherlock into a hug when they were done. He suggested they go to bed early that night, punctuating the suggestion with a line of kisses pressed along Sherlock’s jaw.

“Alright.”  Sherlock smiled softly down at him.

They stripped quickly, and crawled under the duvet, slotting easily together for slow, lingering kisses, and a tender bout of lovemaking that left them lying boneless over the sheets.

“Hey, join me in the bath?” John tipped his head toward the loo when the stickiness grew uncomfortable.

“An excellent suggestion.” Sherlock scratched at the mess drying on his belly.

The bathroom held both a shower, and a large bath that only John had used thus far. He leaned over to place the stopper before turning the water on, adding a squirt of gel to get bubbles swirling over the top. When it was full, John climbed in, gesturing for Sherlock to join him. Sherlock stepped over the edge, settling himself between John’s legs in a series of movements that should have been awkward but instead just looked charmingly elegant. Sherlock blew out a breath as he relaxed back to lie on John’s chest. John wrapped his arms around him and closed his eyes, laying his head on the rim of the bath. They lay quietly, letting the heat of the water unspool any lingering tension.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock rumbled at length, “at my behavior today. It was unbecoming.”

“Oh, love, it’s fine. You don’t have to be buttoned-up all the time.” John ducked his head to drop a kiss at Sherlock’s temple just below his hairline. His tangle of curls relaxed in the steam, hanging heavier around his face. “I thought your device was very clever.”

“Not so clever,” Sherlock snorted. “I remembered that it was only meant to give accurate readings on the vernal or autumnal equinox at best. Since we’re clearly into May, it wasn’t going to work anyway. What we NEED is a map or an actual GPS device.  I was an idiot to try.”

“Hey, hey. Don’t call my boyfriend an idiot. I’ll have you know he’s a proper genius.”

“Boyfriend?” Sherlock shifted in John’s arms to rotate, sloshing water as he moved to face John. The bathtub gave a bit of a creak, and the grout along the tiles joining it to the wall cracked.

“Oh bugger. Maybe two in the bath wasn’t such a good idea.” John reached out to worry at the new line.

“John . . .” Sherlock was sitting back, excited.

As John’s fingers pushed at the tiles, one swung easily away from the wall, revealing the shallow recess inside.

“What the . . .” John reached in to find the small object lying inside. He couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face as he pulled it out.

“Well, now that’s getting a bit scary.” John glanced around the room suddenly worried about cameras again. “Did you say we need a GPS device?”

Sherlock accepted the small plastic box from him with something like reverence, quickly moving to hold it over the edge of the tub away from the water. His mercury eyes danced as he thumbed the device to life.  “John, this is perfect.”

It was still light out, the evenings lingering before true darkness set this late in the spring. Sherlock insisted on getting dressed and going out immediately to track the coordinates with their new device. John agreed, of course he did, delighting in Sherlock’s bubbling excitement. He was like a little boy with a new toy on Christmas morning. They slipped out into the dusk, Sherlock eagerly leading the way. It didn’t take him long to follow the coordinates. He exclaimed in wonder when he had it, and hurried, John at his heels, to the woodshed.

“John, this is it. Whatever we’re meant to find, it’s here.” He looked up breathlessly.

“Okay, then.” John ran his eyes over the small structure. “What are we looking for?”

“Everything, anything. Something that stands out.”

Sherlock pocketed the device, and they set to work going over every inch of the shed. It was made of wood, more rectangular than square, with a large window in the back wall to let in light, but perfectly ordinary as far as John could see. They tapped over the walls inside and out finding nothing before Sherlock suggested they move the wood pile. They set up an assembly line, Sherlock grabbing the logs and passing them to John who chucked them to the ground outside. Thankfully they were only half-way done with the pile, when Sherlock joyously uncovered a panel set in the floor.

“John, look!”

John crowded round as Sherlock scrabbled at it, finding a small indentation that allowed him to pull it open. The electronic display they uncovered lit up the shed with an otherworldly green light. Sherlock’s grin split his face in the eerie glow. “John, we found it,” he breathed.

“Yes, we did.”

A series of buttons seemed to control the electricity in the building, but the one Sherlock zeroed in on was the one marked _Fence_. He clicked it off. They looked at each other, realizing that a low-grade hum that had been with them since they’d come to the island had gone silent.

“God. . .” John felt a frisson of energy skate over the nape of his neck. He peered down at the display, looking at the other buttons, when he realized something was printed on the underside of the lid. He pushed it back as far as he could to peer at it. “Sherlock . . .”

“It’s a map.” Sherlock crouched closer to see. “I think, yes, I know where this is. Come on.”

Sherlock nearly leapt from the shed, John close behind. They crossed the field quickly, moving toward the wall, which if things were as they appeared, was no longer charged. The light was slipping as they reached the wall. John squinted in the gloom at a place where the electric wires were set some distance from the stone wall beyond. Sherlock held out a hand to stop him as John made to touch the wires.

“Wait, let’s be sure.” He turned to scrabble at the ground, finding a few clods of dirt that he tossed at the fence. Nothing.  “Come on.” Sherlock’s voice fairly crackled.

They easily pushed the wires apart now that the current was off, scrambling between to walk the few paces to reach the stone wall.

“Christ, there it is.” John reached out to lay his hand to it, the stone still a bit warm from the day.

“Come on.” Sherlock moved ahead, feeling his way along the wall when he suddenly blipped out of sight.

“What . . . Sherlock?” John cried out, hurrying after the suddenly missing detective.

Sherlock’s head popped out. “There’s an opening here, come on.”

“Why didn’t we see this before?” John asked following him through the break in the wall. “We’ve walked the whole island.” He rounded the corner to find himself between two walls like a hedgerow maze.

“It’s an optical illusion, overlapping walls. You can’t see it until you get close.

“Fucking hell, all his time . . .”

“Well, we couldn’t get to it until the electric fence was off.”

“Right, still.”

They emerged from the small corridor into a briny breeze off the water. By the dying light, John could see they were standing on a cliff, the rush of waves beating at a beach some distance below.

John took his first full breath of freedom. It was a heady feeling.

“John, look!” Sherlock grabbed his arm, pointing to the beach. 

When John turned, he could easily see it, a tall orange pillar, glowing incongruously in the last rays of the setting sun, standing out like a beacon amidst the dark greys and browns of the island.

“We’ve got to get down there.”

“No, come on. It’s getting dark, why don’t we come back in the morning when we can actually see. . .”

“No time, no time for that,” Sherlock said, dashing toward the edge like the madman he was. “I’m sure there must be a way down . . .”

“No, wait . . .” John started after him, but Sherlock was already there, pinwheeling his arms, his big coat silhouetted against the last streaks of red in the dark sky for a moment before he slipped and tumbled over.

“Sherlock . . .” The cry tore from John’s throat as he realized he was already too late.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no puzzles to solve at the end of this chapter, but perhaps all those who made it through the great hiatus between series 2 and 3 might like to have a go at guessing how Sherlock survives the fall! ;)


	4. Sense of Completion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey is completed, with lessons learned, and much gained along the way.

***

 

“Sherlock, Goddamnit, fucking, bloody hell . . .” 

Sherlock blinked, struggling to catch his breath as the form of John appeared at the edge of the precipice silhouetted against the darkening sky.

“Are you hurt? Fucking hell, tell me if you’re hurt.” John lay on his belly to better hang over the lip, and peer at him.

Sherlock shifted carefully on the outcropping of rock that he’d fallen on, only a few meters down the side of the cliff. He ran down a mental checklist on himself, stretching each limb carefully.

“No, I’m fine. I think I’m alright,” Sherlock called, silently thanking the thickness of his coat for sparing him from any greater injury than contusions along his right side.

“Good, ‘cause I’m going to fucking murder you, you bloody idiot. What did you _mean_ , falling off a cliff? You could have been fucking killed!”

“It wasn’t my _intention_ to fall.” Sherlock sat up gingerly, rubbing a newly-discovered sore spot on the side of his skull.

“Come on, can you stand?”

John ripped off his jacket and knotted one sleeve around his wrist, dangling the rest of it down for Sherlock to use as a rope.  Through grit, and sheer determination, John managed to haul Sherlock back up the side of the rock face to safety. John patted over him, breathless, seemingly trying to touch all of him at once.

“I’m fine, John, I’m fine.” Sherlock tried to reassure him, batting him off.

Together they stumbled through the falling dark to find their way back to the building. Once they’d cleared the path through the wall, the light through the front windows remained a beacon in the night to guide them home.

John looked grim as he moved Sherlock through to the bathroom where the first aid kit lay. He insisted Sherlock strip to his pants, and sit on the edge of the bath so he could examine him. He held up fingers for Sherlock to track, palpitated over his torso, and checked each limb for range of motion before finally pronouncing him hale.

“Well, good,” Sherlock huffed, “I told you I’m . . .”

John stepped back, his hand pressed over his face. Only when his shoulders began heaving did Sherlock realize the man was crying.

“John?” He reached a hand out hesitantly.

“Oh my God, Sherlock. Oh my God. I thought you were dead.”

Sherlock rose and pulled John into his arms. John gulped wetly against his chest as a shiver ran through him.

“John, no . . . no.” Sherlock pulled back slightly to kiss the wet off John’s face, making a game of peppering over him with little smooches until John laughed, a half-broken sound that was better than the noises he had been making.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said in a rush. “I didn’t mean to worry you. It was dark, I know we should have waited like you said, I just . . .”

“Oh God, come here.” John pulled him down into a heated snog that whited out all higher brain function.  Sherlock clutched at him, hanging on for dear life, dizzy as John dragged him to the bedroom.

John practically threw Sherlock onto the bed, climbing over him to continue their drugging kisses. Sherlock writhed at the scrape of John’s clothing over his bare flesh, but he ached for closer contact.

“John.” Sherlock tugged at the shirt still separating him from being able to touch the man’s skin.

John broke off, pulling back to yank his clothes away, cursing as he had to lean back to tug his shoes off. Sherlock lay panting until John returned, sliding in over him to kiss him again like he wanted to push him through the mattress. John’s steely erection slid over Sherlock’s still clothed one, and he groaned at the feeling of it.

“God, want you,” John mumbled between searing kisses. “Want you so bad.”

“Yes, please.”

John shifted, moving to the side.

“Here, lift.”

Sherlock obligingly tilted his pelvis up, ignoring his sore hip as John neatly shucked his briefs down and off. John fumbled at the bedside table, and returned to mouth at his neck as slick fingers moved down past his balls, sliding into his cleft. In no time, John was pumping three of them two-knuckles deep into Sherlock’s arse. _God, yes._

It was a brief shock when John moved, and fingers were finally replaced with his hard cock sliding in, filling him, until John bottomed out, flush against him. John bowed his head, chest heaving as he struggled to wait, giving Sherlock time to adjust.

“Fuck me, John,” Sherlock gasped.

“God, yes.”

Sherlock ignored the pain along his side when John spread his legs wider to drive into him, snapping his hips with each thrust.  The soreness of his body melted away under the waves of insistent pleasure as John pounded into him.

“Christ, yes, fuck, you’re mine . . . all mine.” John’s words dissolved into a series of guttural noises as he increased his pace.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock threw his head back, gasping for breath as John filled him, surrounded him, immolated him. He bounced slightly on the mattress with the force of John’s thrusts, the sound of the headboard smacking against the wall a distant counterpoint to their labored breaths.

 “Can’t lose, can’t lose you . . .” John dropped more of his weight onto Sherlock, the drag of his belly bringing needed friction to Sherlock’s aching cock trapped between them.

He strained upward meeting each of John’s thrusts, a humming building under his skin . . . suddenly it was all too much. Sherlock fell apart with a cry, pumping out hot splashes. John drove into him with a few more thrusts before grunting out his own release. He collapsed heavily over Sherlock, lying as if stunned, while Sherlock waited for the world to coalesce back around them.  Sherlock squeezed his eyes tight feeling a tear sliding out from underneath the lids. Others joined.

“Christ, Sherlock, I’ve hurt you.” The pain in John’s voice just made the wet come faster.

“No.” Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat, managing to shake his head. “No.” Something dark and sharp was rising in him though.

“C’mere, baby.” John slid to the side, pulling Sherlock into his arms with him. He cradled Sherlock against his chest, tucking his head under his chin. “Shhhh.”

Sherlock had no words for the feeling of being held safe in John’s arms. He let himself relax by degrees.

“John, I’m sorry. Before . . . I would take chances . . . I never really worried. I mean if I were to die, who would really care?”

“Well.” John swallowed. “It’s all different now, isn’t it?

“Yes, it is.”

John continued to hold him, stroking over his back until sleep crept up to claim him.

“Sherlock, I love you. Don’t you ever forget that.” Came whispered fiercely by his ear before he drifted off.

 

***

Although John usually insisted they both eat something for breakfast, the next morning he was just as eager to get down to the beach as Sherlock was. After a quick wash, they threw on clothes and headed out.

It was much easier to find their way across the field, climb between the deactivated wires, and walk through the corridor between the walls by daylight. The view of the ocean was no less spectacular for a second viewing.

“Wow, it’s just lovely.” John inhaled deeply, looking about.

The incongruent orange pillar on the beach was closer to the water with the morning tide, but still easily visible. Sherlock felt as if he could reach out and pluck it up in one hand, but of course it was at least a kilometer away.

“Come on, let’s find a way down.” Sherlock led the way along the cliff, staying well back from the lip for John’s sake.

He was somewhat chagrined to find a well-marked staircase cut into the face of the rock not twenty meters along the way. It even had metal railings affixed to the side for safety’s sake.

“Well, thank God. I didn’t fancy doing any death-defying rock climbing today,” John huffed.

They made their way easily down to the beach, picking their way across the the rocky shore to the softer sand.

“This is so weird,” John said looking back at the cliff, “being out like this. I keep expecting some big rover balls to come bouncing out to take us back.”

“What?” Sherlock raised an annoyed eyebrow.

“You know like in that telly show, _The Prisoner_ , with Patrick McGoohan?”

“Popular culture. I might have known.” Sherlock shrugged it off.

“Right, sorry, not your area.”

Sherlock was the first to reach the pillar with John right behind.

It was a large cylinder a bit taller than Sherlock, and seemed to be made of some kind of metal painted over in bright orange. When he rapped a knuckle against it, it rang hollow. Immediately Sherlock began to search over its surface.

“There has to be a door, a panel, something . . .” Sherlock ran his hands along the top of the cylinder.

“Yeah, alright.” John squatted down to examine the base.

“Aha.”  Sherlock’s fingers landed on a button set flush with the curve of the metal. One side of the cylinder slid open. A number of things lay inside stacked neatly on the shelves within, but it was the mobile at eye-height that grabbed his attention first.

“Wow. Look at all this.” John straightened beside him, reaching out to poke at several things on a lower shelf.

Sherlock pulled out the phone, and after a modicum of trial and error managed to switch it on. Sherlock was disgusted to see Mycroft’s smug face filling the screen as it flickered to life. John crowded round to watch.

“Well, congratulations, brother, dear, to both you and to Doctor Watson. You’ve both obviously managed to avoid killing yourselves or each other to reach this point. I’m happy to report that at the end of your stay of   . . .”

The image of Mycroft froze as a computerized voice cut in to relay “three months, one week, four days, and twelve hours . . .”

Mycroft’s recorded message continued “ . . . you are now considered fit to return to society at large. Sherlock, my generous offer still stands for employment, but you are free to chose or discard the opportunity as you see fit. Your accounts will be available to you once more as soon as you reach the mainland.  And Doctor Watson . . .”

Eerily enough, his eyes flickered to the side that John was standing on. “You will find a meaningful sum has been deposited into your account with the Bank of England. You are free to go wherever you wish once you have been transported off the island facility.  Please make yourselves ready to depart. Transport should arrive within twenty-four hours. Good day, gentlemen.” With that, the phone shut off.

Sherlock jabbed at the buttons, but the device seemed well and truly dead. With a curse, he dashed it to the ground.

“Hey, hey, we might be able to get this working up at the house!” John bent to retrieve it from the muck, wiping it clean on the hem of his jumper.

“Despite its power being off, the phone undoubtedly contains a number of tracking and surveillance devices.

“Oh, well then.” John stepped forward to place the phone carefully back on its shelf in the pillar.

The side of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up despite himself. _His John. So queen and country._ Though was it right to call him _his_ John? In all honesty, they’d only known each other a few months, and in very unnatural situations. There was no reason to believe that John’s interest in him would hold once they were immersed in the many distractions of the world at large.

John continued to rummage inside the storage space, making an inventory. “Oh, look there’s a tent here, a lantern, firewood, sleeping bags.” He turned clutching a sealed bag labeled as _marshmallows._ “I believe we’re meant to have a campout.” He grinned.

They retreated to the facility to gather up the things they wanted to take with them.

“Christ, I can’t believe we’re actually leaving.” John surveyed the front room with his hands on his hips. “I think I’ll actually miss the place.”

“No need to get overly sentimental. It was, no matter how well decked out, a prison after all.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” John’s brow creased in a way that made Sherlock want to soothe it, but there was packing to be done, and laundry to run through the dryer.

Sherlock made sure to tidy up his experiments in the lab space. No doubt Mycroft would have minions sent in to ready the facility for its next use, but he felt loathe to leave anything personal lying about. He gathered what notes seemed useful before moving to meet John in the kitchen. A feast of epic proportions was already laid out over the table as John brought the last of something over from the stove.

“Are we meant to carry the contents of the kitchen away in our bellies?”  Sherlock blinked at the spread.

“Well, there were things I was saving for a special occasion, but since we’re leaving, I thought we might as well go for it.” John shrugged, returning to fetch a pitcher of something vaguely reddish from the work top. “Bit of a celebration, yeah?”

Sherlock hummed as he seated himself before the cornucopia, accepting the drink that John passed him. He sniffed at it. “What is it?”

“Sort of a sangria, I suppose. I mixed juice with the open wine.”

Sherlock took a sip. “Hmm, not half bad, really.”

“Ta. Come on eat something. Big day ahead.”

Sherlock felt an odd frisson of fear skitter over him at that, but he pushed it firmly away. John held up his drink in toast.  “To freedom.” He smiled.

“Freedom.” Sherlock echoed, raising his own glass to touch rims with John’s.

Sherlock surprised himself, eating more than he thought he could. The blinis wrapped around some sort of cheese filling were especially good.

“Thank you, John, this was delicious.”

“Yeah, of course.”

There were things to be said, but somehow Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to break the pleasant mood at the table with uncomfortable topics. Sherlock had no idea what was to come when they stepped off the island. If these were to be his last moments with John, he wanted to savor them.

“More tea?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, thank you.”

It took several trips to move their luggage down to the edge of the beach, left in the shelter of several large rocks.

John seemed a bit subdued, but he managed to rib Sherlock about the number of bags of clothes he had to transport.

“Poncy bastard.” He complained  shifting the case slung over his back. “How many pairs of shoes does one bloke actually need?”

“I can carry it if it’s too much.”

“Oh, stop, it’s fine.” John knocked his hand away. “Ignore me. What else do I have to do today but help carry your FIVE pairs of dress shoes to the beach?”

Sherlock hmmphed, but John smiled at him so indulgently, he was hard-pressed to take actual offense. It didn’t help that John’s possessions had only taken one trip down. Sherlock suddenly had visions of bringing John to his old tailor, and having him outfitted in a set of new suits, something cut to show off his broad shoulders, and nicely-rounded arse. It would be lovely to see him in clothes other than the shapeless jumpers and jeans he currently possessed. Sherlock squelched the vision immediately. There was no reason to be making untenable plans.

Once they had cleared the facility of their things, John suggested a walk around the beach. They found the walkable portion only extended half way around the island before being cut off by sheer cliff face. It left them ample space for exploring, shoes off, and trousers rolled up, splashing in the waves, poking in some tidal pools, and collecting driftwood left by the tide. Sherlock couldn’t remember a more enjoyable afternoon spent seaside.

When they finally returned to the spot with the orange pillar, John collapsed to the ground with a laugh.

“My old therapist kept suggesting I take a trip to the shore, and I kept shrugging her off. If only she’d known all I needed was to be kidnapped, spend a season in a dystopian prison, and meet a gorgeous genius to spend a day at the beach. Easy peasy.”

A smile tugged at Sherlock’s mouth as he dropped beside John. “This was  . . . nice. I haven’t been to the sea in years.”

John grunted, and they sat quietly watching the waves and the birds darting across the sky in companionable silence for some time.

“Well, my arse is freezing and I need the loo.” John roused beside him. “What say we go get cleaned up, and find something for dinner?”

Sherlock readily agreed, and they fished out a change of clothing from their bags to take back with them.

Sherlock jumped in the shower first while John used the toilet, then left him to the water to get dressed. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, toweling his hair dry when John appeared in the bedroom with nothing but a towel slung around his waist. He looked magnificent, like some Greek god risen from the mists, all rosy and golden, his wet hair swept back. He posed dramatically, grinning.

“Oh, you got dressed.” John’s face fell.

“Well, that could be easily remedied.” Sherlock smiled as John dropped his covering with a flourish and proceeded to climb starkers over him, pushing him back with a growl as he spread them both over the bed. They reached for each other just a bit desperately, fingers grasping, lips crashing, drinking each other down like sweet wine. John rolled them to their sides, his hands going to Sherlock’s buttons. “God, I want you _all_ the time.”

“Yes, oh yes.” Sherlock chased after his mouth, pulling him back into the dance of lips and teeth and tongues.

Afterwards, when the earth stopped moving, and they were simply lying together enjoying the quiet joy of warm skin pressed together, John’s stomach rumbled.

“Christ, I know we had a huge lunch, but that’s the most walking I’ve done in months. I’m starving.”

“I’m hungry too,” Sherlock admitted.

“Definitely time for dinner.”

They rolled out of bed to clean up and get dressed, finding their dirty clothes in the bathroom to carry with them. John insisted on making the bed even though Sherlock pointed out someone would be along to clean it later.

They stood pressed together at the door, waiting the minute for it to open one last time.

John cleared his throat. “It was a good bed. I’ll give them that.”

“Yes, it was.” Sherlock stared at it across the room, the white duvet looking bit rumpled where John had hastily tugged it into place. He almost wanted to drag John back to it, pull the covers over their heads and refuse to leave, but, no. Someone was coming for them soon. It was time to go.

John put water on for tea while Sherlock searched the pantry. He wanted to find something special, something that told John how much he’d come to mean to him over the last few months, but nothing seemed to fit the bill. He emerged a minute later with a few packets of the pasta thing that John seemed to like the most, and John pulled out a pot to heat it on the stove top.

After eating, they did the washing up, making sure things were properly put away. Sherlock felt a sudden melancholy wash over him then, a nostalgia in advance for the teapot and dishes he and John had used together for so many months. It reminded Sherlock so much of saying goodbye to his grandmother’s at the end of holidays when he needed to return to school.  So strong was the impression that for a moment, Sherlock fancied he caught the scent of the lavender from her summer garden in his nose. He chided himself that it was most likely just the smell of the dish soap they were using. John seemed similarly lost in his thoughts as they made a last circuit of the place, looking for anything they’d left behind. He stopped them at the door, doubling back to snag a last bottle of wine from the kitchen before declaring it was time to head out.

The sun was dipping toward the horizon as they made their way back to the shore.  Sherlock opened the orange cylinder, and they unloaded the things they’d need from inside. They had a moment of hilarity trying to set the tent up, but then they had it, staking the ends securely to keep it standing upright. This side of the island was definitely less windy, their beach set back in a small cove, but still, a light breeze played over them.

 John tossed the sleeping bags inside, and then they set to building a bonfire above the water line with the wood from inside the storage pod, and the driftwood they’d gathered earlier. Sherlock used the lighter and starter fluid found with the supplies, and set to making their artfully stacked pile of kindling burn. John had teased him a bit at his preciseness in laying the fire, but Sherlock had spent half a childhood on a beach and he lectured John on how to best stack the logs smallest to largest.

It was magic of the most mundane sort, but lovely all the same as the wood finally caught and flared, yellow flames crackling to life.  They settled on a tarp they’d found to keep out the chill of the damp ground, and John uncorked the wine with the bottle opener he’d nicked.

“I hope they don’t mind I took this from the house,” John snorted, wrenching the cork out.

“I doubt we’ll be held accountable for normal wear and tear on the facilities.” Sherlock accepted the bottle of wine when John passed it his way, taking a long draught from it.

“I took the vibrating dildo too,” John confessed.

Sherlock chuckled. “Too good to leave behind?”

“Well, yeah, but Christ, it was IN me. It’s not like I wanted to just leave it lying about . . . after.”

“Quite right.” Sherlock nodded.

John unearthed two toasting forks and the bag of marshmallows, and they enjoyed roasting them over their fire as the coals deepened. While Sherlock experimented on the best way to achieve uniformly browned sides on his marshmallows, John chased the heat, catching all of his on fire. Inevitably he had to blow out the blue flames to leave a bubbling, scorched mess on his fork. When Sherlock reprimanded his carelessness, John just laughed.

“So what? I like them crispy.”

They ate their fill of burned sugar, getting their fingers and mouths sticky, and John passed the wine again, the taste sour after so much concentrated sweet. Sherlock added another log to the fire as it settled into orange, grateful for the warmth. They lay back on their elbows, watching the impressive splash of stars overhead in the dark velvet of the sky.

“Christ, you won’t see stars like this in London,” John said with some reverence in his voice. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Gorgeous,” Sherlock smiled slightly, watching the play of light and shadow over John’s upturned face. The fire popped as a burning log shifted within it. _Beautiful. John was simply achingly beautiful._

“I can’t believe we’ll be back in London tomorrow,” John said, taking another swallow of wine.

“If all goes to plan, yes, we should be.”

John pushed more upright, growing more pensive as he stared into the depths of the flames.

“Sherlock, you know . . . I wasn’t doing very well in London, before I ended up here.”

“I’d gathered as much.” Sherlock knew it was rude to stare, but he couldn’t stop himself from devouring John’s profile.

“I was diagnosed with PTSD, and suicidal ideation after invaliding home.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock winced. It wasn’t anything he hadn't already deduced, but it hurt to hear.

“They weren’t wrong. I’d lost everything that meant anything to me.” John wiped his hand over his face. “It was just one grey day after another. I couldn’t think of any reason to stick around.”

“And now?” He had to ask.

“God, now it’s like night and day.” John turned to look at him. “It’s like I’ve done a 180.”

“I’m glad. You deserve to be better, John. You deserve everything. I have to admit . . .” Sherlock cleared his throat gone suddenly clogged. “I was on my third overdose when Mycroft had me sectioned this time.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John’s voice had gone reed thin.

“I was smarter than any of the doctors Mycroft dredged up for me. I thought I knew it all, how much to take, how to stay on top of it. Then . . .” He glanced back toward the fire. “Then I got so tired of it all. I just didn’t care about anything anymore. What was the point?”

“God.” John scooted closer. “As much as I hated waking up here, I think it was the best thing for both of us.”

Sherlock nodded. He forced himself to say it then. “John, you’re bisexual, with a strong tendency toward forming long-term romantic connections with women exclusively.”

“Yeah, true. In the past, but . . .”

“Also I know we haven’t been completely sexually compatible. If you were looking forward to dating when you got back to London, to finding a woman to settle down with, I wouldn’t hold you to . . .”

“Wait a minute! What the hell, Sherlock? If you’re talking about the bondage, that wasn’t your fault. It’s something we can work on . . . together . . . or not. Look, it doesn’t really matter. I don't want anyone else. I _love_ you. I told you that I loved you.”

“People say things in bed they don’t always mean. All those endorphins.”  Sherlock flapped a hand.

“Sherlock do you love me?” John gripped his shoulder. 

Sherlock turned to face him. John’s face, so alive, glowed by the light of the dancing flames.

“Yes. More than anything.” Sherlock breathed out at once.

“Well, then it’s bloody settled. You’re stuck with me.”

“John.” Sherlock reached out as John gathered him in. He clutched at the back of his beloved’s jacket, burying his face in John’s hair. 

“I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

“No, never.” Sherlock inhaled John’s scent, pulling it deeply into his lungs.

“Sherlock, come to bed with me. I need to hold you.”

“Yes, please.”

Holding the lantern to guide them, Sherlock led the way to the tent. John helped him lay out the sleeping bags, unzipping them flat to lie between. They stripped off their layers, fumbling in their haste. When at last they rolled together, John wrapped Sherlock in his arms, laying kisses wherever he could reach.

“God, you’re everything to me, Sherlock. Full stop. Everything.”

“Yes, you too. Everything.” Sherlock seemed to have lost the ability to form complete sentences, but John didn’t seem to mind. Thankfully, soon their lips were busy enough that words were no longer needed at all.

Later, as Sherlock lay basking in the sound of John’s deep breathing, and the rhythmic slap of the waves outside, it occurred to him that if he had ever thought he knew what happiness was in his life before, it had been a flicker, a mere shadow to the feeling now filling him to the brim and spilling over. He snugged closer to the furnace that was John’s perfect body and drifted off secure in the notion that whatever tomorrow might bring, he would not be facing it alone.

Sherlock blinked awake to sunshine filtering in through the thin tent walls. The space was luminous like a cocoon made of light encasing them in their own little world. John was still asleep, sprawled beside him, and Sherlock would have been content to lie and watch him sleep for ages, but a full bladder would not be ignored. Quietly, Sherlock pulled on some clothes, and stepped outside, barefoot, absorbing the shock of the chill ground. He made his way to the water line, startling several birds away as he stumbled toward the waves. He pulled himself out, and watched as the stream of urine caught the sunlight arcing into the water. A flash of something moving on the horizon snagged his eye. A boat. Sherlock finished quickly, and hurried back to wake John.

They had their things assembled, ready to greet what appeared to be a simple fishing boat as it neared the cove. The boat launched a small dingy to reach the shore, two very ordinary-looking men haling them jovially as they approached.

“Good morning! Heard you blokes needed a lift,” the older man called as they climbed ashore. The younger one, most likely his son, helped him tug the boat up out of the waves.

“Aye, that’s right.” John squinted at them, smiling boyishly. “Honeymoon’s over, time to get back to work.”  He flashed a wink at Sherlock, and it brought such a flush of affection for his love, that Sherlock had to step forward and kiss him. The sailors paid them no mind as they set to work hauling their luggage, and it settled something inside Sherlock. They were a couple now. A real couple that others would see together as simply a matter of fact.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if their hosts worked for Mycroft or were merely what they appeared to be, hired locals, and would be handing them off to higher-ups at the next stop. It didn’t really matter either way. They settled themselves into the craft and pushed off, heading back to the larger boat. When all was secure and they were on their way, the men calling to each other behind them, Sherlock and John stood at the railing. They lingered, watching avidly as the island receded into the distance.

“God, it’s not that big is it?” John sounded disappointed.

“Only a few kilometers long,” Sherlock agreed.

“It was our whole world for awhile.”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiled softly. “While I don’t condone Mycroft’s manipulations, I can’t be angry with the results.” Sherlock caught John’s hand in his own, lifting it to drop a kiss to his knuckles. “I love you, John.”

“I love you too.” John’s smile was dazzling in the bright sunlight.

They glanced back, watching until the island became a mere dot on the horizon before moving. Hand in hand, they turned to find a drier spot to sit, ready for whatever new adventures might be arriving to greet them.

 

 ***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, lovely readers, here we go. This alternate ending to ChrisCalledMeSweetie's fantastic tale is now at an end. It was a pleasure to write this, and I hope it brings a satisfying closure to a very clever story! Many thanks to all who followed me over here from the original fic! I appreciate the company! :D


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